


Breaking the Unbreakable

by Seprophim



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ...sort of, A lot of kink.., Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blood Kink, Bondage, Bottom Steve, Choking, Dom Loki, Dom/sub, From Sex to Love, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Slash, Sub Steve Rogers, Top Loki, Wakanda, to say the least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seprophim/pseuds/Seprophim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has escaped from Asgard and is determined on breaking one man: the leader of those who brought him to his knees, the unshakeable, moral Captain America. But he might just find the supposedly infallible Captain a little more interesting than expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's days like this that Steve envies Tony.

Tony is carefree, seemingly without effort. His responsibilities are practically nonexistent. Not because he hasn't been given any, but because he's the type who just doesn't accept responsibility and God help whoever tries to force him.

Steve has neither the inclination nor the slyness required to defy SHIELD like Tony does. But sometimes, sometimes, he wishes he could escape. Take a week off like Tony did that one time when he disappeared to who knows where. It's a nice fantasy, even if he knows it would be ill-advised, stupid, and most of all, irresponsible.

Today, Steve's resolve on that issue is wavering just a little bit. He leans his head against the elevator wall and resists the urge to bang his head into it repeatedly. The floors click by slowly. His apartment seems endlessly far away.

He tries not to think about his terrible day and fails.

First, there is the bombing in Texas. Fury says it's the work of a certain Victor Von Doom, a new criminal whose work in robotics even Tony drools over. Steve runs his hand through his hair. They barely finished bundling Loki off to Asgard a few months ago and already, there's another psycho on the loose.

If that isn't enough, Tony is stubbornly volatile the entire day. Come lunch break, Bruce asks jokingly if it's girl trouble. Tony punches him right in the jaw. Steve is forced to mediate (as usual). His attempts at reconciling the two fail (as usual). The Avengers are fighting amongst themselves again, and this isn't the first time Iron Man is the cause of it.

Steve shuts his eyes. The elevator bings. He ignores it, lost in thought and guilt and maybe the beginnings of self-doubt.

Only an hour after lunch, Thor pops up to inform SHIELD that Loki has escaped Asgard, the explanation of which is still woefully incomplete. Clint, understandably, is furious at the news. And who has to physically restrain Hawkeye when he tried to practically assualt Thor? Good ol' Captain America.

Although, he has to admit, once Natasha returned from the bathroom, she handled it from there. He's not sure what she said to Clint, but whatever it was calmed him down exponentially.

Finally, Steve had to talk Bruce down from another episode after Tony started needling the doctor about his ex-girlfriend (Betty? Steve isn't quite sure). It was somewhat terrifying, seeing the mild-mannered doctor with veins standing out on his neck and sweating in an effort to control the Hulk inside of him.

By the end of the day, the two were chatting excitedly about some new discovery together and Steve, while relieved, knows it's only a matter of time. Tony doesn't change, the Hulk doesn't change. Captain America, the eternal peacekeeper, doesn't change, either.

Steve leaves the elevator. Sighing, he fumbles with the key for a few moments before drawing it out of his pocket.

He slots it into the keyhole, pushes open the door, freezes with premonition that comes just a little too late.

 _Could this day get any worse?_ Steve thinks and, as the long-haired man standing in his living room turns, he answers his own question.

The sleek black hair would be unmistakable even by itself, even without the distinctive armor. Loki turns and Steve is speechless for a second.

"You—" Steve starts and Loki flicks his hand in an almost careless way. A rope appears, writhing in the air and looking strangely alive. It wraps around him, winding tighter and tighter. Steve manages to tear, desperately, at one section before his hands are bound.

Loki frowns theatrically. The ropes pull tighter, dragging Steve towards the god.

"No," he pants and struggles harder. His shirt, a simple cotton button-down, rips at his right shoulder. It's not reinforced like his Captain America suit and, at the thought, he wishes desperately for his shield. Steve doesn't stand a chance against Loki like this.

They both know it too. It's clear from the madness in Loki's green eyes that the thought excites him.

Loki glances at the little tear in the fabric in a way Steve can't quite identify. Approving? Curious? He doesn't know what it means and doesn't want to.

"Stop struggling," the god says sharply, a thin rope reaching up to wrap around Steve's neck. He coughs and chokes. His body stills instinctively, although his mind is screaming against the darkness eating away at his vision

 _Phone. Camera._ Fury had cameras installed outside his apartment building. _Why did I insist on them not being inside? Now I'm going to die and it's all because I wanted some damn privacy._ The ropes loosen and Steve splutters, vision returning even if he's not sure he wants it to.

Loki examines a basic wooden chair he's just conjured with satisfaction. "Get on the chair," he orders in a tone Steve hasn't heard before and, unthinkingly, he obeys. The ropes bind him tightly to the chair.

"So easy," smirks the god. "The great Captain America, reduced to this, and without even a fight. As weak as Iron Man outside of his suit."

"Tony?" asks Steve, a wave of concern surfacing. "You…?"

"No, no," Loki murmurs and steps closer. He touches Steve's face almost gently and Steve strains against his bonds to turn away. "Breaking your little Iron Man would be far too easy."

"Tony would never break because of you," snarls Steve.

"Who said I meant it like that?" A smile twitches over Loki's lips. His finger nudges Steve's mouth. "There are more meanings to the word break, you know. Do you want to find out what they are?"

"You're not making any sense." The god ignores him, pacing around him like a hawk circling its prey.

"Aren't you noble? Worried about defending your friend's precious _honor_ while you yourself have bigger things to think about."

"How did you break out of Asgard?"

Loki backhands him without a second glance.

Steve repeats the question, blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. Loki, shrugging, turns away for a moment and Steve takes advantage to throw himself forward. He smashes into Loki's back. The god falls, momentarily stunned, but so does Steve and he crashes against the wooden floor, his cheek pressed up against the cold surface.

He's upright again before he can even think. This time, he feels something in his mouth and realizes with horror it's a ball gag.

"Bad boy," says Loki, pushing himself up from the floor as if nothing had happened. "Very bad. You know, when I first came to your measly home, all I planned on doing was taking you." He smiles at a horrified Steve. "But I think I'll have to do something much worse to our pretty little Captain."

Steve mumbles against the gag uncomfortably. Loki guesses at the general gist of the protest with a single raised eyebrow.

"I'm sure you think that whatever I do to you, you can stand. That you won't bend or break, you'll just take whatever I give you."

Loki strokes the side of his neck with one hand and lets it wander over to Steve's slightly exposed right shoulder. Steve's skin prickles at the touch.

"Well, you're wrong. I know," Loki breathes into his ear, the ropes winding tighter. "Just how to hurt such a man like you. Just how to drive you _mad_."

The cords across his chest dissolve but the ones around his limbs tighten. They pull his arms back, lash his calves to the legs of the chair, hold his neck in an awkward position that keeps him looking down. _What is he going to do?_

Steve expects death, he expects torture. He expects all of these things but what's happening now is different from that. It's very different. He shudders again, feeling and seeing Loki's pale fingers caress him. Air swirls against his skin as his shirt is unbuttoned.

The hot breath of Loki mingles with the cool air. Steve struggles hopelessly against his bonds. Subconsciously, he knows what's coming. But now his mind is a mess of sensations, random thoughts, a repeating reel of curse words. His body struggles but his brain is repeating the same words over and over again.

Loki unzips his pants and pulls out Steve's cock, half-hard from the Loki's light touches. He taps it with a single finger tauntingly and kneels. "Bad Captain. Hard for your enemy?"

_No, no, nonono—_

Loki takes him into his mouth all at once and Steve cries out around the ball gag. Normally, his manners prevent him from cursing but this, this is wrong, this is bad, he is crying out curses rendered unintelligible by the gag and suddenly the gag isn't there anymore and he is shouting them.

Steve holds back, tries to hold back. Loki lets his tongue run up the bottom of Steve's hard cock and just _watches_ as Steve tries to conceal his reaction. The look in Loki's eyes is all too knowing—he knows that, despite everything, it feels _good_. Steve trembles. He can feel the pre-cum leak out, drip onto Loki's red lips. 

"Stop," Steve begs with remarkable self-control. "Stop!"

"You don't mean that," growls Loki. Then his eyes light up with something new, a new scheme. Steve wants to scream in frustration. Loki is always plotting and he is a step behind. "Okay."

Steve stares at him through half-lidded eyes, a multitude of emotions running through him. He tries not to disentangle them. He's afraid of what he might find.

Loki stands up, backs away, and sits on the windowsill. The skyline frames him perfectly and the artist in Steve, ridiculously, croons silently at the sight. The only light in the room is that of the city that never sleeps and it plays up the lines of Loki's face admirably.

Steve is panting, but he tries to get himself under control. He ignores the green eyes zeroed in on his face. Guilt swells up inside of him as his cock twitches painfully, traitorously. He hears Loki laugh quietly and ignores the urge to beg for the god's mouth back on him.

He closes his eyes and hears footsteps approaching him.

_No, no, no, stop thinking about this._

Loki breathes out a few words, too close. "Don't close your eyes, Captain. Or I'll make you regret it and not in a fun way." When Steve hesitates, the ropes twist one of his ankles in an excruciating way.

Steve holds in a yell but opens his eyes. Loki watches him with amusement. "Give in to your pride, Captain. Beg. I could stay here all night, watching you slowly crumble."

Something in Steve's injured pride balks at Loki's words. He sets his mouth into a resolute line, ignoring the pleas of his heavy, painful cock. Time drags by. Loki's smile doesn't falter in the least. Steve tries to fall asleep, tries to do anything but sit here with an erection and think about Loki's mouth on him.

Steve tries, but every time he thinks he's distracted enough, he looks up and meets Loki's green eyes and suddenly there it is again. Lust battles with his pride—and he doesn't really know what will win.

The worst part is knowing that he can end it. And that the price is not painful, the price is not betrayal, it's not going to harm anything but his pride. Steve can say one word and Loki will leave, he can say one word and be done with this night forever. Loki watches him as if he can read Steve's thoughts. The god stretches like a cat in a way that's surprisingly seductive.

"Well?" he says.

Loki's lips are still moving when Steve mumbles, "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please—please—" his tongue feels like it's stuck to the roof of his mouth and he struggles with it for a few moments before the words come rushing out. "Please take me, hit me, do anything you want but just let me cum. Please."

Loki eyes him. "Who knew you had it in you to beg, Captain?" he says mockingly but saunters over at an easy pace. He reaches out, his fingers nearly touching Steve's cock and Steve moans before he knows what he's doing.

"Very good," whispers Loki and wraps his fingers around Steve's dick. Steve shudders underneath his touch and loses himself in the sensation. It's over all too quickly, the god smiling as cum splatters against Steve's chest. His heart feels as if it's going to beat until it beats through his ribcage.

He can't think. He can't think of what he's supposed to be doing or where he's supposed to be. He's trapped in Loki's gaze, trapped under Loki's fingers, caught in a mental fog he's never felt before. Maybe he just doesn't want to remember; maybe he can't. Loki leans down for a few parting words.

"Tell your friends, don't tell your friends, I don't care," purrs Loki, the implication clear that he thinks Steve won't bother telling. He smiles toothily. "Goodbye, Captain." He disappears in a swish of dark cloth and a few moments later, Steve's bonds loosen, fall, vanish.

The only things Loki leave behind are the plain wooden chair and the liquid pooled on Steve's still heaving chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve spends the majority of the night cleaning, scrubbing the floor again and again and snapping the conjured chair into splinters to be swept away. It's comforting as a distraction, if only for a little while. He'd rather mess up a few punching bags but that will have to wait until he can get to the SHIELD gym.

He tells himself he needs to regain a feeling of control. Privately, he's not sure if he wants control.

Control means responsibility, and responsibility means…Steve shudders involuntarily.

Responsibility means he has to turn Loki in. Responsibility means he has to admit what happened. Responsibility means accepting the guilt he's been pushing down this whole night.

 _What's the point of this?_ he thinks, working through the logic of it all. _I don't have any idea where Loki went. He told me nothing about anything he's doing or planning, nothing. The only thing gained from this is my humiliation._

His thoughts make him feel guiltier and guiltier and he glances around as if expecting Loki to pop out at him and go _Ha! I ruined Captain America!_ but of course that's ridiculous. His conscience is not some physical being that will hunt him down for this one little transgression.

Steve makes the decision not to tell unconsciously, his mindset slipping seamlessly from "How will I tell?" to "There's no point". But the guilt refuses go away, even as he changes into athletic clothes and sets out for his morning run. He thinks back and runs through the scene again and again in his mind.

 _He wants me to confess,_  Steve decides and everything seems to fall into place. Loki wants him to tell exactly what happened, is counting on his famous morals to bring about his ruin. If he tells the truth, what will happen? To let his friends, his teammates, his boss, even, know that Loki could force him to beg? To beg to _cum_? That a man could…

No, he'd be done for. Steve fights down the part of him that says they would be right and pants as if he can somehow push the intrusive thoughts out of him via his lungs. He can still do his job, regardless of what Loki says. He can move on. His feet pound into the sidewalk rhythmically, comfortingly.

He's back to his apartment all too soon. He showers, glances at the time, and, without a moment's hesitation, grabs his helmet so he can take his motorcycle to SHIELD headquarters.

Steve manages to keep his thoughts off Loki for only few minutes at a time and even then they are morbid daydreams about what would happen if he were to confess. He dodges traffic with a detachment that he typically would have abhorred. This sort of autopilot mindset is dangerous but he gets to headquarters without any incident more serious than beeping car horns.

The doors slide open for him and he passes through with a futile effort at subtlety. Being Captain America, he is instantly recognizable even without his uniform. Waves and nods of greeting assault him from all sides and it's only when he escapes into the elevator that he feels like he can actually breathe.

He lets the false smile slip from his face and pushes the button numbered three. The doors start to shut, but a slender hand stops them. Natasha slips through and pushes number two.

"Morning," Steve says with a strained smile. "Conference room?"

"Yup," she responds. "We're supposed to be in a group meeting at ten, just so you know. You going to the gym?"

"Definitely," he mutters, scratching the side of his head absently. He's looking forward to the relief of his punching bags. He remembers how a few months ago, Tony spray painted little faces on all the punching bags, piled them into a corner, and stuck a sign marked "Captain America's Punching Bags, Do Not Touch" on top of them. Fury wasn't too happy about the faces, especially when a few sneaky reporters managed to slip in and get a few shots of Steve demolishing a particularly crude bag with the President's face on it.

He remembers how there's a Loki bag somewhere in that pile and his stomach flips a little bit.

"You doing okay?" Natasha asks.

"Oh, yeah, just an off day," he lies with more than a twinge of guilt.

"Gotcha," the Black Widow nods, as if she believes him, but Steve can't be imagining the way her eyes linger on his face. The elevator _bings_ and she leaves with a quick "See you later". He wonders for a second on her self-assuredness, but soon all thoughts are put from his mind when he reaches the gym.

Steve takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar odor of sweat and disinfectant. It's oddly calming. Here, people are used to seeing him. It's not special to see Captain America filing to the back with his training bag slung over his shoulder. Here, he's just a guy training, albeit one who destroys punching bags on a regular basis.

He opens his bag, pulls out a roll of gauze, and goes through his normal routine of wrapping his hands in the white material. He hangs a punching bag (he suspects it's meant to be Adolf Hitler, judging by the signature mustache) and begins, stance a little wide, the sound loud and jarring and blissfully distracting.

_"I know just how to hurt—"_

_Thwack. Thwack. Thump._ The bag falls. Steve kicks it away with abnormal impatience, hangs another one with slightly shaking hands, starts again.

Two bags later, Tony enters and Steve can feel the man's eyes on his back from across the room. He wonders if the Iron Man is planning on making some sort of apology. He smiles at the thought but, to his surprise, hears footsteps behind him. Normally, he'd be pleased that Tony is, for once, going to make peace with him first instead of the other way around. But today, he doesn't think he can handle an apology. He doesn't deserve one.

To escape talking to Tony, Steve pointedly begins to pack up his bag.

"What's that, Cap?" Tony asks casually, gesturing towards Steve's sketchbook poking out from the top of the bag.

"Nothing," says Steve. His mind is a million miles away.

"Oh, okay," says Tony agreeably and kicks Steve's bag with surprising ferocity. The contents spill out and Tony snatches the small sketchbook from the pile. Steve resists the odd urge to growl. He stands, arms crossed, and glares.

The door to the gym opens and Bruce enters. "Tony? Oh, there you are," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about the radiation signature on Dr. Doom's bomb, if you're not—"

"Hey, hey, Green Machine," says Tony, seemingly not listening to a word Bruce is saying. "Do you know what this thing is?"

"Yeah, it's Captain's sketchbook," Bruce responds off-handedly. "May I ask why you have it?"

Steve tugs at the pad. Tony makes a noise of protest but can't compete with Steve's strength. "Fine, have it," he responds, holding his hands up in mock surrender before turning to leave. He says something under his breath and Steve catches the words "diva", "spangles", and "suit".

Bruce mutters something that sounds like an apology and practically drags Tony away. Steve doesn't respond, just packs away the sketchpad with a faraway look on his face. He heaves the bag onto his shoulder. He leaves the punching bag lying on the ground, stuffing scattered forlornly across the ground.

Checking the time, he heads to the conference room. He tries to push away the rising guilt inside of him. It's getting worse and worse as the day goes by and he's scared at what will happen when it all boils over.

The meeting starts normally enough, although Bruce and Tony are nowhere to be seen. Fury talks about the bomb threat called in in Texas, how they traced it. Steve tries his best to focus. Fury says something technical about the bomb's radiation signature. Steve gives up and resigns himself to asking Bruce later to explain what's going on to him.

_Later, when I forget about what happened. Later, when I stop stewing in self-pity._

The door opens suddenly and the last two Avengers file in.

"So, I've discovered that our very own Captain America owns a fashion notebook so he can design his own spangle-filled suits," announces Tony obnoxiously as soon as he enters the room, accompanied by a very worn-out looking Bruce. Steve splutters as all eyes turn to him.

"What?"

"It's all right, Cap," soothes Tony, patting him on the arm. "I don't know how it was in the forties, but it's socially acceptable to come out of the closet now."

_"What?"_

"Stark, enough," snaps Fury and without hesitation plunges into the news that Thor is staying on Earth temporarily to search for Loki. Steve's mind is racing. Thor gives them all good-natured nods of greeting. Steve, staring fixedly at the wall behind Fury's head, notices nothing.

He's not completely dumb. Steve knows what the phrase coming out the closet means and it scares him.

He glances around the room uneasily, hoping the others don't notice his self-absorption. He tries to focus on Fury's words, desperately, more and more frustrated as they slip past him like sand through his fingers. Tony starts talking, along with Bruce, again with the technical terms he doesn't have the patience to understand at the moment.

The day passes like that. It's as if he's separating from himself, going on muscle memory. He's filled with confusion and the lingering feeling of fear. The cloying expectations of the other Avengers scare him, terrify him as they never have before. He's been scared of letting them down before, yes. But this time, he feels like he already has.

When Steve gets home, he plans on going for another run or even just drawing for a while. He needs to sort his thoughts out without pressure.

Then there comes a knock at his door and he opens it, filled with apprehension.

"Hey there, Van Gogh," chirps Tony cheerfully, holding out a pizza box as if it's a peace offering. Steve's not sure whether to laugh or cry. "I brought pizza and booze and am ready to get completely drunk."

"I can't get—"

"Oh, I know, your file says you can't and all that, but I mean, seriously, three times the normal metabolism doesn't mean you have infinitely working metabolism, right?" rambles Tony.

"He just needed an excuse to get hammered," says Bruce from behind Tony, holding a couple bottles of alcohol.

"False," Tony retorts flatly, pushing past Steve and into his apartment. "Why would I need an excuse to get hammered?"

Steve steps aside. "Well, I can't argue with that."

Bruce gives him an apologetic look and enters, scanning the room as if looking for evidence. Steve resists the urge to tell them to leave him alone. Instead, he plays the gracious host to Tony's obnoxious houseguest, getting out some paper plate and cups for the trio.

Tony gets irrevocably smashed in minutes as he tries to match Steve drink for drink. Bruce sips at the crude scotch like it's a fine wine, chats idly with Steve, and watches the pair when he thinks they aren't looking. Steve's no psychiatrist, but even he picks up on the doctor's worry. He gives Bruce an inquiring look. Bruce avoids his eyes.

"So, wait…what's with the whole 'Van Gogh' thing anyway?" Steve asks for lack of anything better to say. Tony seizes on the topic with the boundless enthusiasm of inebriation. Even Bruce looks mildly curious.

"It's a meez-terry," Tony slurs, drawing the word out with a big grin. He bangs his head into the table and mumbles some curses. "Fuck, the wood looked so soft from up there…"

Bruce sighs. "It's probably just because you draw," he says furtively to Steve. "He likes to pretend he's more clever than that but we all know Tony's drunk half of the time anyways."

"Am not," says Tony unconvincingly. "I'm just enjoying life without Pepper." He hiccups.

Steve and Bruce exchange a meaningful look. "Well, that explains a lot," says Steve under his breath. "No wonder he's been acting so weird lately." He feels a stab of guilt at his words and hopes Bruce doesn't notice.

Bruce notices. "You're not one to talk. You've been off all day. You keep looking around you like you're expecting someone to show up." He looks searchingly at Steve. "Natasha told me."

Steve's breath catches in his throat. _How does Natasha know?_

"About how you get into these depressed moods sometimes," Bruce offers. Steve has never been more eager to talk about his moods than now. He nods energetically. Honestly, he hasn't thought about Peggy or Bucky at all today. He hasn't been able to focus on anything except Loki.

"Yeah, it's just hard adjusting to now, you know? I left a lot of people behind in my time and sometimes, it all catches up to me," he babbles. It's true, but the tone of relief is clear in his voice and Bruce tilts his head questioningly.

"You know what? I'm getting kinda tired," Steve lies. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, Captain," he says doubtfully.

"There's a spare room and a couch if you guys want to crash," Steve offers hurriedly.

"Well, seeing as Tony already has…" mutters Bruce, pulling up the unconscious Tony with his face smeared with sauce. The doctor dabs at him gingerly with a napkin before giving up the attempt. "I'll get him to bed."

"Thanks." Steve clears up the table, his mind only half on the task.

"Oh, yeah, and Steve?"

Steve registers his name and the strange gentleness behind it. "Yes?"

"Don't hurt yourself, alright? I know what it feels like, leaving people behind and always being out of place. Don't get like I did." Bruce sounds inordinately nervous.

"I won't. I'm getting better, I promise."

"Good," says Bruce with a skeptical look in his eyes. He continues to drag Tony to the spare room. "Night."

"Good night," the Captain responds, dumping the paper dishes into his trash can in an attempt at normality. As soon as Bruce is out of sight, he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to forget the accusatory expression on his friend's face. He grips the countertop. His knuckles are white against the dark marble.

Steve wishes he could forget. He wishes he could get blackout drunk. He wishes that he could give up control over his life for just a few minutes and let the terrifying weight of guilt slip off his shoulders. Instead, he's weighed down with regrets and shame and he hates it.

He wishes, but wishes are even less substantial than words. He thinks of Peggy and his broken promise. He thinks of Bucky, reaching, reaching, falling. He thinks of Loki, the god practically known for his lies.

Lies, that's all it was. He tries hard to believe that. But the god's words echo within him and send icy tendrils of dread creeping over his shoulders. He clenches the countertop harder.

"There are many meanings to the word break, you know. Which you'll discover, I'm sure. I know just how to hurt—"

"Stop," Steve says out loud, helplessly. "Stop." He wills himself to relax, to go take a shower. His body doesn't obey. He is rigid with fear and apprehension. Something cracks. For a second, he thinks it's his finger bones snapping against the so-called marble.

It's not.

Panting, he stares down at his hands, gripping tighter and tighter, seemingly independent of his mind. Spider-web cracks stretch across the side of the stone, little white cataracts that just keep going and going.

 _Well, that can't be real marble,_ Steve thinks and has to stifle a bubble of hysterical laughter. Finally, he collapses, his fingers feeling bruised and strained and his throat feeling oddly tight. He stays there, skin pressed against the cool kitchen floor, for longer than he'd admit to anybody.

Steve doesn't notice Loki sitting on his windowsill with a self-satisfied expression on his face. Steve doesn't see the little smile fade as he stands, dusts himself off, and leaves for his morning run as if nothing has happened. He doesn't see the narrowed eyes, the tightened jaw. He sees none of it, yet still puts on an affectedly neutral look.

Loki stands, the action stiff with concealed annoyance. A very hung-over Tony stumbles into the small kitchen, lowing some sort of cow. His eyes run right over Loki—yet don't see him.

Loki makes a faintly disgusted sound in the back of his throat and disappears.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning is Saturday, a fact that Steve forgets until he returns from his run to see Tony struggling to make breakfast. Bruce is helping him with some degree of success. The smell of eggs cooking (and burning) pervades the apartment and the sound is like that of a fire crackling.

For a few moments, Steve stands in the doorway, watching them chat with a feeling of peace. Then he sees the cracks in the countertop that the pair is carefully ignoring and feels a little of his fickle tranquility slip away.

"Good morning," he says, putting on a smile.

"Morning, Van Gogh," says Tony with a visible wince.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Morning, Captain. And Tony, you do realize that's not clever at all, right?"

"You kidding? I made it up. Thus, it has to be more clever than what you think," smirks Tony. Bruce ignores him, the whites of his eyes making another appearance. He takes the pan from the billionaire's hands and dumps the eggs within onto a few plates unceremoniously.

They eat, Tony doing most of the chatting despite an apparently monstrous hangover. Bruce makes the occasional snarky remark and gets an equally obnoxious one back from Tony. It's comfortable. Steve feels the knot of guilt in his chest begin to loosen up.

"So what was going on during the meeting yesterday?" Steve finds himself asking, feeling rather obligated to catch up. "It was a bit…above my pay grade."

"What does that even mean?" asks Tony a little standoffishly. He doesn't wait for an answer. "We-ell, to put it in nice, easy terms, we were talking about tracking Victor von Doom, the suspect behind the Texas bombing."

"We originally got a really vague tipoff from one of our undercover agents, remember?" adds Bruce. "How he'd been hearing rumors of a Victor von Doom, or as he styles himself, Dr. Doom?"

"Yeah, so what's the progress on tracking him?" This he can deal with. Words like tipoff. Tracking. His head clears a little bit.

"Well, what we found was a very unique radiation signature. Basically, that bomb left a strange residue behind that makes us suspect either it wasn't intended to be a bomb or it's a new form of dirty bomb." Bruce stops for a moment to chew a last forkful of eggs.

"We're not sure what it could have been yet. We've been modifying equipment in order to scan for the signature, which will hopefully track us back to this Dr. Doom," finishes Bruce, clearly oversimplifying. Steve nods in gratitude.

Bruce stands and clears up the dishes in a few minutes, helped intermittently by Tony. "I should be going," Bruce says, glancing at the time pointedly. "See you Monday, Captain."

"See you," says Steve. The phrase feels unfamiliar in his mouth.

Tony says his farewell reluctantly. He doesn't look as if he wants to be alone, and Steve understands why. If Pepper, the only person outside of the Avengers who sees—well, saw—Tony on a regular basis, really broke up with him…Her absence must be torturous.

While he and Tony might not be the best of friends, Steve cares about him just enough to indirectly suggest a movie night. "You know that Batman movie you always talk about?"

"Yeah, the one that completely ripped me off?" says Tony indignantly. "Billionaire with a fancy suit is a superhero? I mean, come on."

"Well, I haven't seen it yet," Steve says. Tony seizes on the idea enthusiastically.

"Want to come over sometime and watch it? I've been meaning to have you guys over, you know, Avengers team-bonding experience."

"Sure. Just call me whenever." Whatever regrets Steve might have about his offer dissolve at the look on Tony's face.

"Thanks, Van Gogh."

"You're welcome," Steve says automatically. "I'll see you Monday."

"Yup," Tony calls over his shoulder, half out the door. The door shuts behind him with a sense of finality.

The silence is deafening, unbroken for a few moments.

And then he senses, rather than hears, someone else behind him. He knows that they're there the same way he knows, with a sudden certainty, that it's Loki behind him.

"What do you want?" says Steve, talking to the door rather than the god.

A few footsteps behind him, the warmth radiating from Loki's body just an inch too close for comfort.

"I'll yell. I'm sure someone will hear," Steve threatens. He feels a finger nudge his lip, stroke his cheek. He shudders and feels his face redden at the memories that simple touch brings back.

"No, you won't," Loki says softly but with a commanding tone Steve unthinkingly obeys.

Steve stares at his door fixedly as if he can will it to open. "Why?" he says rigidly. So many questions wrapped up in that one word. He doesn't know how many Loki hears.

There's a little hiss behind him and something very hot presses into the side of his neck. He gasps in pain, feels smoke rising from a tiny burn, turns around halfway. Loki pushes him flat against the door impatiently, a flame dancing on his fingertip and reflecting in his green eyes.

"First rule: no talking unless I ask you a question." The flame goes out. Loki takes a small step back, sizing Steve up. "You will follow my orders or I will make you. So I'd suggest, for both your comfort and mine, that you do exactly as I say. You have no control here."

Steve is afraid, his back molding gradually to the door's ridges and whorls as he presses against it, the burn on his neck throbbing. He's afraid, yes, but somehow he also feels a little lighter, more alive. Every touch, every breath sends pure electric adrenaline thrilling through him. Every sense is heightened, attuned to the point of pain. He's afraid and he's never been more exhilarated in his life.

He has the lingering feeling that he should be guiltier, that the knot in his chest should be clenching up as it did so interminably yesterday. He should be punching Loki and knocking down his own door to escape. But that part of him that revels in adrenaline and fear rebels against the idea.

"Stop, pet," Loki purrs, sounding amused.

"What?" says Steve just a little too loudly.

"You were thinking too much...and besides, didn't I say no talking?" Loki says, punctuating the last two words with tiny burns against Steve's neck. Steve resists the urge to cry out with difficulty.

"Now," commands Loki. "Strip."

The word is so incongruous in the god's aristocratic accent that Steve almost laughs. Loki narrows his eyes, fingertips blazing.

"Isn't that how you Midgardians say it?"

Steve nods blankly.

"Then, what are you waiting for?" says Loki, wrapping one hand lazily around Steve's neck as if it's a toy. This time, Steve screams, a broken cut off sound caught in his throat. He can hear his flesh _sizzling_ and it is absolutely, mind-numbingly terrifying.

But if before he felt a rush, it is _nothing_ compared to what he feels now.

Steve takes off his socks, sweatpants, then finally his boxers, feeling a strange aversion to taking off his shirt. He realizes why a few seconds later. More exposed skin for him to—

"You're thinking," Loki says, poking him in his still clothed chest in a way that would be playful if not for the smoking hole his finger leaves in the cloth. "Stop."

Wordlessly, Steve pulls his shirt over his head. He realizes he's trembling and does his best to still his body under Loki's rather wantonly itinerant gaze. The green eyes rake over him, take in every part of him.

Steve suppresses the primal urge to cower. He wonders if the god is going to burn him more and the thought gives him an odd tingling in his abdomen. He hopes it's not what he thinks it is.

Loki makes a noise of appreciation. "Well, isn't that interesting."

Damn. Steve has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly what Loki means and a glance confirms it. He feels his face reddening. The stiffness against his belly, while certainly not unpleasant, is humiliating. He makes a mental note to—

"Would you stop?" snaps Steve in an attempt to cover up his shrill squeak of pain. Loki looks at him with a coldness belying the flames ringing his fingers. Fingers that have just been pressed onto Steve's flat belly.

"I said. Don't. Talk. Now, turn around."

Steve winces as he sees the five burns on his stomach but refuses to turn around.

Loki places his palm flat over Steve's thumping heart. Agony shoots through him. He could swear his heart skips a beat. Steve turns as fast as he can and Loki helps by slamming him against the door face first.

Making a helpless little whimper against the wood, Steve feels the burns and the hardness of his cock more than ever. Loki chuckles at his discomfort, pinning Steve to the door with his own clothed body.

"Let's see," the god breathes. "What do you like better?"

Steve barely hears the words before Loki presses against him, harder, the rough surface of the door grinding against him. His hands clench and unclench. He holds them a little above his head and keeps them glued to the door. If he didn't, who knows what they'd end up doing.

"Or this?"

Burning pain against his back, a single finger dragging up, down, up, down. He feels his cock twitch and closes his eyes in silent resignation.

The pain drives all other thoughts out of his mind. Loki reaches down to grip him with a (thankfully flame-free) hand and Steve moans unthinkingly. He can feel Loki's smile against the back of his neck as he shakes. The god takes his hand off of Steve's back, using it instead to brace himself against the door. The wood blackens from the residual heat.

"No," gasps Steve. Don't stop, he wants to add but suddenly he can't seem to form coherent words.

Loki nips at his neck almost affectionately and he feels his muscles spasm at the tiny spark of pain.

He's close, so close. _But..._

Operating on some animal instinct he didn't know he had, Steve reaches behind him and fumbles blindly at Loki's leather pants. Through some dubious miracle, he manages to unbuckle them.

"No," says Loki, sounding taken aback. "What are you doing?"

Steve touches the god, strokes the length of him with some difficulty. It's uncomfortable with his arm twisted behind him like this but he wants—needs—to make Loki cum, too. _Why?_

He doesn't know and he doesn't care.

Loki convulses against him with a little moan almost like a purr. Steve feels a cold wetness that is most definitely not sweat trickle down his bare back and a few moments later, Steve shudders as well. Loki's hand, moving so fast his post-orgasmic vision struggles to see it, doesn't cease.

"Stop," Steve cries out, pain beginning to overcome the throes of his orgasm.

"No," Loki says. "This is your punishment for touching me without permission and for telling me what to do, bikkja." The words are haughty, the Asgardian definitely insulting, but the god's voice shakes.

The hand moves faster, friction that hurts but is rapidly becoming more and more pleasurable. The soft lips brushing his ear part slightly. "Say I'm your King."

Steve doesn't think before the words leave his lips. "You're my King."

"Good pet," Loki murmurs and lets him go.

Steve falls but doesn't feel the impact. He closes his eyes for what could be a minute or could be a day, trembling, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but pleasure.

Slowly, his senses return. First, he feels a wetness cooling against his skin, then hears his own breathing and his gradually slowing heartbeat.

Finally, he opens his eyes to see Loki gazing down at him, clothing unruffled and back in place, with a very satisfied smirk. There's something strange about it, though, and Steve realizes with a start that Loki's eyes are red.

"Your eyes…" starts Steve and Loki flinches, blinking. For a second, he looks vulnerable, surprised, maybe hurt. Then the green returns and the smirk as well.

"Felt so good you passed out, bikkja?" The words are sharp this time. 

"I didn't pass out," mutters Steve. He knows he sounds petulant but at the moment he doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything except Loki. Some voice inside his head nags at him that he shouldn't be thinking that. "Why were your eyes red?"

"You're lucky I'm not in a punishing mood anymore," says the god, ignoring Steve completely. "But I think I'll have to change the label on your back, bikkja."

"Label?"

"Yes, bikkja, label. That's what pets get, correct? Labels?"

"Not exactly," Steve says. He feels improbably content, tired, but content. He refuses to delve into why.

Steve's home phone rings and Loki twitches almost imperceptibly. He shakes his head like he's just been woken up.

"That's my cue to leave," Loki sighs melodramatically. "Until next time, bikkja. You've been…quite entertaining."

Steve nearly says "Thank you" before catching himself. _What the hell is with that instinct?_

It doesn't matter, anyway. Loki is already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve works up the motivation to drag himself to the phone just as it stops ringing and switches to voicemail.

"Damn," he says aloud, wobbly on his feet, his voice sounding oddly fuzzy even to him.

While he's gotten used to hearing and even sometimes using words like "fuck" or "shit", "damn" always comes more naturally to him.

The machine recites his phone number monotonously and asks the caller to leave a message after the beep. Steve sits back on the floor with a heavy thump. His head feels as if it's been stuffed with sleepy bunnies. In a pleasant sort of way.

He groans, half at the insipidity of his own thoughts and half at the effort required to gather up his discarded clothing. He pauses for a moment before putting on any of it, poised with the air of a dog expecting to be beaten.

Truth to be told, he thought he would feel a lot…worse than this. Instead, his chest feels strangely light. Steve hesitates a few seconds more, waits for the inevitable avalanche of guilt. It doesn't come.

He shrugs inwardly and pads into his bedroom, feet silent against the soft carpeting. In doing so, he walks through his living room, past his coffee table. On that coffee table is his home phone. When he walks by, his foot snags on the cord briefly.

Briefly, but it's enough. The machine is suddenly silent.

* * *

 

When Steve bought his apartment, there were lots of things he needed that he didn't know quite how to manage (for example, the aforementioned cordless phone).

There were also a plethora of things he didn't know he even wanted but received nevertheless. A good example of that would be the ninety-inch flat screen television, courtesy of one Tony Stark.

In both cases, Steve found it necessary to call on Tony and Bruce for help with installation. He listened with half an ear as they went through the steps to fix and repair certain appliances. To his credit, he did try to memorize a few of the names for convenience's sake.

That way if something broke, he could call Tony and say "Tony! I accidentally broke my cell phone!" instead of "Tony! I crushed my annoying beeping thing because it wouldn't shut up!". Much easier to learn the names than to endure Tony's endless lectures on the merits of technology.

It was even easier to tune out the two scientists and ignore whatever explanations they had for how various household items worked.

* * *

 

So when Steve's foot catches on the cord and pulls it out of the outlet, he thinks nothing of it. He assumes whoever is calling decided not to leave a message and continues into his bedroom without another worry.

Even the sight of his mangled back in his mirror only triggers a habitual concern in him. He's long outgrown worrying about most physical injuries. He twists, looking over his shoulder to check out the damage. He nearly cries out in surprise at what he finds.

"PET" reads the burn scars on his back in thick lines of darkened flesh. Steve traces them with his finger, contorting his arm to touch them. He knows they'll heal soon, fade until they're invisible and the only wounds left will be purely mental.

But this mass of scarring doesn't feel like a wound. It feels like…Well. A label. A promise, maybe. A promise written in the most sadistic way possible. But a promise that, despite himself, Steve looks forward to.

He's not really hurting anyone. _I don't know any relevant information about him._  He pulls out a new shirt from his open dresser, as well as a pair of running shorts and socks.

His phone buzzes, signaling an incoming text. Steve ignores it, dressing before he even realizes what he's planning to do. He pauses for a moment in his doorway, thinking.

Then, for perhaps one of the only times in his life, Steve Rogers makes the conscious decision to be selfish.

He leaves his cell phone behind without answering it and leaves his apartment, starting a jog he intends to end at Central Park. Not a run, not something to get the stress out of his mind and into his muscles. Just a slow jog.

He can't remember the last time he went to Central Park not intending to pound his overactive conscience into the pavement with his feet. He can't remember feeling this free.

And while he's certain this is only a temporary reprieve from his life, that his past will weigh on him even heavier tomorrow, there's something intoxicating about this simple freedom. Steve's not sure why he feels this way, so uninhibited and open and light, but he's pretty sure it has to do with Loki. Loki has unlocked this.

Even in his strange state, he finds that slightly worrying. _Why do I suddenly feel like Steve and not Captain America? Why don't I feel guilt when I should be drowning in it?_ He grapples with the questions briefly.

But, Steve has to admit, right now he is content clinging to the easy bliss of a cool spring breeze against his face. He focuses on breathing in and out, not to beat his own time or to build any muscle. He loves to run, loves to jog, and it's been a while since he loved it like this.

The seconds pass quickly, the minutes even quicker.

A few hours later, Steve enters the lobby of his apartment building. The Stark-made camera registers his presence. The data is relayed to an artificial intelligence program called JARVIS, who, in turn, informs Tony Stark.

Immediately, Steve's cell phone begins ringing and doesn't stop until he reaches his apartment and answers, still loose and relaxed but with a very vague feeling of premonition.

"Captain," says Natasha coolly when he picks up.

"Natasha, that you?"

The Black Widow ignores the somewhat rhetorical question. "Why didn't you answer?" Her voice is measured in a way that only those used to working with her would be able to tell is angry.

"I was busy," offers Steve lamely.

"Well, I hope you're not busy now because we have a crisis on our hands. Get to the Stark Tower."

"Why not headqua—"

"Headquarters is gone, Steve," Natasha says, raising her voice almost imperceptibly.

"What?"

"It's gone," she repeats flatly. "Dr. Doom sent in a horde of fucking robots while you were busy. Loki was spotted with them."

"Lo—"

"Stark Tower. Now." The click on the other line ends their conversation. For a few seconds, Steve keeps the phone pressed to his ear as if it holds the answer to his unspoken questions. Then, slowly, carefully, he sets the phone back, takes a deep breath, feels his heart clench up inside of him.

He winces involuntarily.

_Oh. Here comes the guilt._


	5. Chapter 5

Steve reaches the Stark Tower in record time. The massive skyscraper, bright and new, is still so eye-catching to him that he nearly collides with Natasha. She crosses her arms and steps in front of him before he enters the building.

"Wait. I wanted to talk to you before you talk to the others," she says, eyes silently judging him. "We're all okay," she adds, seeing the unspoken question on his face. He nods in mixed relief and gratitude.

Her hair is mussed, clothing dirty and torn in some places. She's getting strange looks from some of the passerby, and as Steve joins her, he can practically feel the stares.

But despite her frazzled appearance, he sees no clemency in her face. He trusts her judgment even more than he does his own, especially now. So the sight of her eyes, bright with agitation directed at him, sends jagged spikes driving into his heart.

"Do they blame me?" he blurts before she can speak. He's not sure he'd be able to say for what they blame him for. The destruction of SHIELD headquarters. Simply not being there. Everything.

"It would be a lie to say they don't blame you somewhat," Natasha admits, evidently deciding to answer his question instead of asking her own. She hesitates before going on. "But if it helps, it's because they don't like feeling…dependent."

"That has to do with it how?" Steve asks, not quite following.

"Headquarters was destroyed, Steve," says Natasha. She releases a long breath, staring into space. Steve waits for her to continue. "And we were forced to retreat almost immediately."

The sudden use of "we" doesn't escape Steve's notice.

"We were helpless without you. We were disorganized, messy, sloppy. Tony spent as much time studying the damn things as he did fighting them because he was sure there was a weak spot somewhere. The building nearly fell down on Bruce when he chased a couple robots into the higher floors. We haven't told the employees, of course, but most of the damage to headquarters was the Hulk's doing. The robots weren't that destructive. Fury thinks they were a warning, not meant to actually destroy us."

Natasha pauses to let the words sink in. "Warning they might be but…Clint and I were lost in the whole battle." She laughs, but it's short and angry. "He was stuck trying to protect me and all I was doing was trying not to die."

"You're our leader. And that's why we blame you," she says, voice brittle. "Because we're all people who've only ever relied on ourselves. Now we rely on you." She takes a breath, pulling herself together. "And then you don't show up when we need you? That…It's terrifying."

"That's not fair," he says, quietly, eyes downcast. He's not sure if he believes his own words. "But…I guess nothing really is." Steve wonders, as the words come out of his mouth, where that bitterness came from.

"Oh, don't sound so depressed," Natasha says sardonically, mask back up. "The rest of us realized that a long time ago."

She starts in at a brisk walk, hips swaying, and he follows her with his eyes for a few seconds before starting after her. He remembers the kiss they shared, not so long ago if he thinks about it. Somehow, it already feels like a dim memory.

Natasha laughed at him afterwards, once they'd been safe, before explaining her strange relationship with Clint. The constant, jealous tug of war as each tried to deny that they needed the other. Steve was just a pawn in the game between her and Clint, a pawn with no idea of the rules.

That's sort of how he feels now. Steve is lost, surprised, speechless while Natasha is very intentionally nonchalant. Natasha's deliberate honesty is a dichotomy with her ability to seemingly flip her emotions on and off and it is lethally confusing for Steve.

Standing in Tony's elevator, side by side but not speaking a word, the two are comfortably wordless. Her face is blank. He tries to make his the same but knows his every emotion is probably flitting through his face, as obvious to her as if they are tattooed across his forehead. She's merciful enough not to comment.

AC/DC blares from the speakers. They share a commiserating look.

It's a relief but also intimidating when the elevator stops, doors sliding open. Natasha is out before the doors have opened completely and Steve follows her, already feeling out of his depth.

The Avengers, plus a Fury and Thor, are seated around Tony's dining table. It would be an oddly homey scene if not for the fact that every person there looks bedraggled, exhausted, and more than a little angry. Natasha takes the seat to Clint's right hurriedly.

Fury is first to break the silence. "Natasha, could you summarize for the Captain if you haven't already."

Steve scans the faces around the long dining table. He sees that most are trying to look pointedly unconcerned about his arrival. _Trying being the key word._

Only Thor nods in greeting, although his expression is dark with an anger Steve knows is directed primarily at Loki.

 _Loki._ Steve ignores the feelings welling up in him from that one name and sits to the left of an unhappy looking Clint. Clint doesn't spare him a glance, eyes boring into the table, knuckles whitening around the grip of his bow.

Natasha begins to speak in a neutral tone once he settles in his seat.

"Our priorities lie with catching Dr. Doom and Loki, who seems to be…supplementing Doom's forces with his own magic. We saw him tod—"

"That Loki was a fake," declares Thor. Fury clears his throat.

"With all due respect, we saw Loki with our own—"

"An illusion," snaps Thor, obviously used to being the interrupter rather than the interrupted. He sighs wearily. "I apologize. But I saw him flicker. I know it wasn't him."

"When was this?" demands Director Fury.

"At the very beginning. While you and Tony were contacting the other Avengers. He started flickering, losing power, not fighting. Then he disappeared."

"Thor," says Fury with the air of an exasperated parent. "Are you sure you just didn't...lose sight of him?"

"I would not lose sight of my brother," Thor says with dignity.

"So wait, wait, wait," Tony interjects. "The Loki we were fighting was a fake?"

"At least at the beginning, yes," Thor says.

"Well, that's fucking embarrassing," Tony remarks, ignoring the glares the others throw his way. "And then he disappeared, you say…why?"

"I do not know," Thor concedes. "But he did. I have no explanation as to why he'd let us know that we were battling an illusion. And why he would flee, so suddenly."

"Maybe he wanted us to think it was an illusion?" says Steve. He feels the icy dread coiled in the pit of his stomach and the tightness in his chest all too acutely but tries to keep them out of his voice. Something about what Thor said triggers a memory. _Flickering…The red eyes…?_

"Maybe," Bruce says skeptically before fixing him with an accusing look.

"Where exactly were you, Captain?" he asks, something blunt and hard and violent in his words. But it's not the Hulk's anger that's showing through the broken glass of his voice. It's Bruce's anger, his hurt, everything wrapped up into one question.

Steve doesn't have a response. "I was out," he says, aware of how empty his words sound. He studies the table. Any more excuses he might have are stuck in his throat. _Since when did I make excuses?_  

Since Loki. It feels like so long ago that he was with Loki, in a blissful state of ignorance and helplessness. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the lingering feelings.

"Out?" snaps Bruce, who looks exhausted but still on the verge of fury. "Out?"

The other Avengers exchange worried glances, but none look ready to speak up against the Hulk. Fury presses his fingers into his one remaining eye as if contemplating ritual suicide. Steve tries to think up a proper apology and comes up with nothing other than the two simple words "I'm sorry".

Maybe if he says them enough, it'll get through to his mind and his heart and Bruce. He knows that isn't true. He knows he can't forgive himself—and nor can he say he's sorry for what happened. He's not selfless enough.

It hurts. He'll never be selfless enough.

But that doesn't stop him from, doggedly, trying.

Finally, Tony leans forward to speak.

"Save it, Bruce," he says, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. "We're all pissed at Cap, but we've got other things to worry about. There's no need to go all Elphaba on him now."

"Who?" Steve, Natasha, and Clint chorus, dispelling the tension.

Director Fury stops rubbing his eye and puts his head in his hands.

"Elphaba is the Wicked Witch of the West, who, as I understand, is green," explains Thor, looking pleased with himself. This time, even Fury raises his head to give him an odd look.

"You know that…how?" asks Tony.

"Same way you do, I assume," Thor says, jovially. "Women."

Tony's face darkens. "Yes," he acquiesces, letting the conversation fall away into silence. Thor looks mildly confused at Tony's sudden mood, but has the sensitivity not to ask directly.

There's a few uncomfortable minutes while they all avoid each others' eyes. Finally, Steve clears his throat.

"Is there anything specific we're waiting for?" he asks, more out of concern for the team he doesn't deserve to call his than anything. "I can wait to be filled in tomorrow."

Clint is the first to seize on the opportunity. "Definitely. I'm going to head home. See you guys tomorrow to do damage control." He walks out in short efficient steps, not looking back, not even pausing to see if Natasha follows him.

After a moment of hesitation, she does without a goodbye.

Thor is next, offering them each a cheerful smile before he departs to go see Jane. Steve envies the way Thor can seemingly forget about Loki, forget about the battle, not hold a grudge against Steve.

Steve's struggling to manage anything of those things.

Finally, it's just Fury, Steve, Tony, and a still annoyed-looking Bruce.

Fury heaves another weighty sigh. "Captain, I'd brief you now, but I think, after today, that wouldn't be very productive for either of us. I'll send Agent Hill over, nine A.M., here. If that's all right with Stark." His tone suggests he doesn't care about it being all right with anybody.

Tony can't resist commenting. "Nope, sorry. I'm all booked up." He falters a little at Fury's heated glare. "I was…kidding?"

"Good," says the Director curtly, turning to leave. Steve hates to be left in the dark like this, all alone without anything to occupy his mind. But after today, he's in no position to demand information.

Tony drums his fingers against the table. He ignores the scowl Bruce is aiming at him and instead addresses Steve.

"Can Bruce and I go over to your apartment?" he asks, and then, without waiting for an answer: "Great, come on, Bruce."

Bruce mutters something but shoots Steve a weakly apologetic look. Steve, giving an apologetic nod of his own, pushes down his surprise and follows the pair out of Stark Tower.

It's only when Bruce is in Steve's bathroom (an uncomfortable thirty minutes later) that Tony reveals the reason he's here.

"So…care to explain why you turned off or otherwise incapacitated your home phone?" Tony accuses bluntly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I saw the tapes from my cameras Fury has trained on your building. You left at eleven thirteen."

"So what?" Steve tries not to sound defensive and fails.

"Well, let's see," says Tony, counting off hours on his fingers. "Bruce and I left at around ten o'clock. The attack occurred at ten fifty. Fury got in contact with me at ten fifty-five. I called you and the rest of the Avengers at ten fifty-six. While you were still home."

"I only heard one call and I figured it wasn't important since nobody left a message or called again," says Steve truthfully.

Tony narrows his eyes. "Yeah, you didn't hear my voicemail or my twenty other fucking calls, because your phone was disconnected. The question is…why did you disconnect it?"

"I didn't disconnect it." Steve says, bewildered. "I'm just as confused as you, trust me."

"Okay then, Cap," says Tony cynically. "Let the expert handle this." He strolls over to Steve's coffee table, where his home phone sits neatly in its plastic cradle. The billionaire picks it up, pushes a couple of buttons, and frowns. He spends a few seconds poking and prodding at the base before his eyes travel along the cord and widen.

"Did you unplug the phone?"

"What?" asks Steve. Tony gestures wordlessly to the cord, lying on the ground next to the electrical outlet. "What's wrong with it?"

Tony looks like he's not sure whether to laugh or hit himself in the face. "You have got to be kidding me." He settles on shaking his head in exasperation. "I'd be suspicious, but nobody can fake that much stupidity. Especially not you, King Goody-goody."

"Was that supposed to be an insult? And besides," Steve says indignantly, "it's called a cordless phone! I thought that meant, as the name suggests, no cord."

Tony makes a weak attempt at contempt. It doesn't last long before he dissolves into hysterical laughter—laughter that might be more manic than happy.

Steve thinks about protesting but somehow, he has the feeling that will only be opening himself up to more insults. He settles down on the couch instead, nonplussed.

Bruce, returning from the bathroom, furrows his brow at the scene before him. "Um."

"Oh, Bruce," Tony chokes out. "You are going to _love_ this."


	6. Chapter 6

Loki's magic is slowly slipping away and he knows it.

When he first escaped from Asgard, awash in his freedom, his magic benefited tremendously. The Trickster God, doing what he was meant to do—in general, to mess things up—and it was wonderful. Odin didn't even realize he was gone for nearly a week.

Then, he listened to the pesky rational part of him that said protection was a must. With that goal in mind, he fled to Europe. A chance meeting ultimately ended with him at the mercy of a human. To his eternal shame, it was voluntary.

He was, for a brief time, safe as he could possibly be on Midgard. He was stuck in a country that's populated by more sheep than humans, stuck with a man who's vaguely redolent of Stark with his technology, but he was safe from the Avengers and whatever Asgardians care enough to search. And now he's thrown it all away.

Thrown it away not because his magic is faltering and he's growing more and more miserable being under Doom's control. No, he's thrown it away because of impulse.

Impulsiveness is something he normally likes. It's a useful weakness in others, often predictable, easy to manipulate. Now he's the one being impulsive and he doesn't like it in the least.

Well, if Loki is to be honest with himself (which he rarely is), he liked it quite a bit.

And his magic surged, too. Something about trickery helps his magic.

Something about Captain America, too, if he is to be honest with himself.

But he's Loki, so he isn't.

Then everything fell to pieces. He let his Jotun form slip through, just for a second. He lost control of his duplicate. Then, in the dumbest move of all, he let Captain America go.

His hazy mind somehow convinced him that was a good idea. Spiting Dr. Doom? What could be better? The fact that he was also helping an Avenger didn't seem to matter.

Normally, Loki might enjoy messing with Victor von Doom. But not now, not when his safety depends on the man.

As if on cue, Dr. Doom chooses that exact moment to walk in.

Loki is unreasonably annoyed by the lack of knocking, even if it is technically Doom's room. One of Doom's own guest rooms, even. He tries to avoid thinking too much of it, tries not to loathe the situation. It doesn't work.

Groveling to anybody has never worked for Loki, not unless he has dozen ways to bring that entity down cooked up in his head. Failing that, even a dozen petty pranks will do. Anything to prove he is more than them. That he is not inferior.

Now he doesn't even have privacy. He is tempted to grit his teeth, not at the denouncements the human is probably going to give him, but at the pure wrongness of it all.

"Good job keeping Captain America away from the battle," says Doom finally, framing the ridiculous name 'Captain America' with something close to fascination.

Loki sits in slack-jawed astonishment for a moment.

"I do assume you managed the rest of them at the battle." Loki waits for some indication that the man is playing with him. Because the Captain surely went to the battle post-coitus. Because how could Doom not know that Loki disappeared in the middle of the battle and never came back?

"I don't have cameras in my robots. I just program the commands and let them fly," Doom continues, as if reading Loki's mind. "Since you are here and unharmed, I do assume it went successfully on your end?"  
"For me, yes," says Loki's mouth, the rational part of his mind seizing the opportunity with desperation. The fool doesn't know, he doesn't know anything. "I do not know if your robots reached what they wanted." His words are smooth.

"I didn't get the information, if that's what you're asking," says Doom, mouth a thin line. "The Hulkdestroyed huge sections of their own headquarters, along with the robots I dispatched to get at the computers."

Solely and incongruously reverent in Doom's declaration is the sobriquet for Banner. Loki loathes Doom even more for it but he remembers a Midgardian saying about the hand that feeds you and doesn't comment.

"I see," he replies neutrally.

"No, you don't, you hate him. Just as you hate them all." Doom waves his hand dismissively. "Your kind has no scientific curiosity."

Loki files away the statement for future analysis. "My kind? What do you presume to know of my kind?" he asks, voice bland to quell the portentous feeling rising inside of him.

"Well, I know you, although I doubt you're a good example of the norm in any society," he sneers, a flicker of unease breaking through the smug insolence. A little sunlight through the clouds. He's hiding something.

"I agree with the latter sentiment completely." Loki notes how Doom's mouth loses its tautness, relaxing into a barely noticeable expression of relief when Loki drops the subject.

"Dinner is at six. I'd like your personal summary of the battle then. You did keep the Captain away from the battle, right?"

"Yes," says Loki, lip curling. "Although I don't understand your motivations for doing so."

"The most efficient way to kill a person is to aim directly for the brain," responds Doom in an eerily mirthful tone.

"Then why not kill him instead of distracting him?"

"Oh, come on, you know me. Figure it out." Doom sounds immensely patronizing. Loki immediately makes a resolution to give some of his prized sheep nasty gastrointestinal problems. He doubts it's a coincidence when he feels his magic stirring within him at the thought, a little ember flickering back to life.

Instead of answering, propelled by the insubordinate traces of magic within him, Loki shrugs. He turns his head, presenting his profile to Doom. In his peripheral vision, Doom's eyes narrow.

"Six," Doom repeats unnecessarily and leaves, steps not so much landing on the floor as dropping on it. Loki smiles, a smile devoid of both teeth and laughter, at the noise. Then he sits on the bed. It's more of a fall, really.

The creak of rusty springs grates in his ears almost painfully. It is the sound of weakness, a hideous squeaking that draws Loki out from the maze of his thoughts and back into the world.

Reluctantly, he stands and begins to pace relentlessly. It's a disgustingly human custom. It's the only way he can think of relieving the itching ache inside of him without destroying something.

Doom just gave him a lucky break, a way to keep his protection without making any overcomplicated deceptions. Loki should be relieved. His most idiotic decision is being passed over, ignored. It's the one twist of fortune that has gone in his favor in what seems like forever.

Maybe that's why he feels even less safe than before.

Loki's under Doom's control and while that may provide some measure of safety, he hates it. Something inside of him is cringing, shying farther and farther away from this wretched situation. He can't help thinking that this development is not a blessing, but a curse. He can't help thinking that he'd rather be out on the run than staying here like some performing animal.

He is not Doom's personal messenger to order around and call to dinner. He will not stay here and sleep in this bed and indebt himself to the human any further. He is an unwilling ally of circumstance, yes, but he can make his own decisions.

His fists clench even as his face remains unemotional, stock-still. Loki knows Doom probably has pinhole cameras surveying every inch of his room. He knows that, so he keeps his face clear of everything roiling inside of him and pushes his anger into the floor and his fists.

Loki strains to call his magic. He manages a faint trickle, like a wisp of smoke, and then gives up.

It must be declining because of Midgard. It has to be Midgard.

Because the alternative is that he has lost his place as God of Chaos, that he is undeserving of his chaos magic. This alternative is unthinkable because it means the part of himself he thought he could always rely on is leaving and he will be finally, truly alone.

Loki is already a haphazard patchwork of failures where fathers and brothers should be. The last thing he needs is another gaping hole. What's left of him makes a sorry mess already. He's not sure if there will be anythingleft at all if his magic leaves too.

Perhaps he will fall apart in the wind, stranded on Midgard, prey to Doom's ruthless curiosity.

The thought fills him with anger.

He's going to let them win?

It's the thought that kept him going in the void, kept him going throughout it all, the Tesseract and Thanos. It's what will make him find a way to bring back his magic.

He is Loki, he is the God of Trickery, he is not meant to be completely rational about things. An impulsive recklessness seizes him. Why should I have to worry about being safe on Midgard?

It's time to do something. It's time to do something worthy of Loki.

He feels his magic flare up, lets it run along his fingers in the form of flames. The flickering light brings to mind what he did to Steve. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and he allows it to morph his expression. Let Doom figure that one out.

It's time to do what he is meant to do: cause trouble.

And where better to start than with the Avengers?


	7. Chapter 7

"Vibranium," says Fury grimly. "That's why the bots were so hard to destroy. There are still scraps lying around in the rubble that survived the self-destruct blast. Highly diluted in their alloys, of course, but enough to protect the main circuitry."

Fury, Tony, and Steve are standing amongst the detritus that was once headquarters. Even the basement floors are mostly unsalvageable, thanks to the Hulk.

In his rage, Bruce sent most of the building tumbling down on itself, apparently in pursuit of a few small robots fleeing into the inner halls.

Then, at the end of the short and rather one-sided battle, the robots self-destructed. The resulting explosion reduced what was left of headquarters into dust and chunks of stone. Fury combed over the place with a squad of agents, looking to retrieve what was left of his mysterious research. From the stormy look on Fury's face, he was not successful.

Steve rests his eyes on a section of rubble that's shifting slightly. As he watches, Bruce's head pokes up, dusty and with a look of abject ire on his face. Steve's not sure what he's searching for, but he's smart enough not to ask Bruce when he's like this.

"So the robots do have a weak spot," Tony asserts.

"No, Stark. Their weak spot is their strong spot thanks to the damned vibranium."

Tony mutters something rude and picks up one of the scraps, examining it closely. "If we're lucky, I can get some impressions of what was inside the vibranium panels. They should have left some sort of residue, right?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before trotting off to consult Bruce.

Steve follows him briefly with his eyes. Then he meets Fury's one-eyed glower with an evenness he doesn't feel. "Isn't the only known source of vibranium Wakanda?"

"I contacted the Black Panther there as soon as we realized it was vibranium," Fury replies snippily.

"And…?"

"He's willing to let us check out the place. We'll be flying the Helicarrier over there in a couple of days," Fury explains. He sighs, the sound short and brittle. "He's been unwaveringly neutral for a long time. I hope he's not involved with Doom, but we have no other choice than to follow all leads. Or in this case, our only one."

"Is it really safe to bring the whole Helicarrier over if we suspect Dr. Doom and Loki might be involved?" asks Steve. It seems like an awfully long trip for the Helicarrier, not to mention dangerous for the many people maintaining it.

"That's exactly why we're bringing it over. It's our most powerful asset and lab right now, especially since most of our research in headquarters was destroyed." Steve is really beginning to hate the pointed way people are saying "destroyed" to him.

"No backups?"

"Most of it was physical research," Fury explains curtly and Steve's eyes narrow at the term. He has a bad feeling about what that means. A feeling that he's heard that particular phrase before.

"What do you mean, physical research?" Steve demands. He's ignored.

"We're moving what's been spared to the Helicarrier tonight." Steve doesn't like the sound of the word "spared".

He's about to question the impassive Fury further when Bruce calls him over. "Cap, we need your help."

Steve's so relieved at the fact that Bruce is calling for him out of his own volition that he heads over to help immediately. But he can't dislodge the faint presentiments of fear he has regarding Fury's "physical research".

Apparently, he's not the only one with such concerns.

"He's already gotten it all out, the computers, the experiments, not even a little bit of circuitry left behind," Bruce is saying, the words fast and thick and a little slurred as the doctor struggles to keep the Hulk inside.

Tony looks up as Steve approaches.

"For once, don't go all 'I'm Captain America and this is wrong' on Fury, okay?" Tony mutters, jerking his head at the one-eyed man in question.

Steve is about to argue, out of both habit and moral obligation, but Tony cuts him off in a low tone. "I've been trying to get my hands on proof for months, but he keeps it offline because he knows I'm nosey. Once we're on the Helicarrier, I can get it, but if you keep questioning he's going to make it harder to find. Kapish?"

"Wait," says Bruce, too surprised to glare. "We are going on the Helicarrier? Did they not learn that it was a bad idea last time?"

"What else do you think Fury's going to make us do?" Tony asks before answering his own question. "If Loki and Doom are really in Wakanda, possibly with the Black Panther, he needs us. He can't expect to have a chance otherwise."

Steve opens his mouth to protest.

"Don't even," says Tony, rolling his eyes. "Fury's already pissed at you. The only reason he's not screaming his head off is because you're the poster boy for all of America."

"That has to do with it how?" asks Steve hesitantly. He realizes what he's admitted a second too late. Tony barks out a short laugh before replying.

"You're the only one that listens to him," the genius says by way of explanation.

Steve concedes the point reluctantly.

It's the kind of day that passes in a blur, the kind of day that leaves Steve exhausted even if he's done little to no physical exercise.

In a way, it's a relief. He doesn't have time to think, and it is easier that way. Steve's not like Natasha. He doesn't write psych profiles or analyze his friends relentlessly. He's a soldier, he's part of a larger whole; he is not supposed to sit around thinking about his feelings.

He ignores the fact that the past few days have been occupied by doing exactly that and focuses on moving forward. Moving on. Assessing the damage done to SHIELD headquarters, preparing for the trip to Wakanda in a few days, dealing with the more mercurial Avengers.

But despite all his efforts, once Steve arrives home time seems to slow to a dead stop.

He considers calling up Tony, since he seems to be the only Avenger not treating Steve coolly, but doesn't feel like explaining his motivations. Tony's never been reserved about his curiosity so that will have to wait until Steve sorts out what he's feeling.

And therein lies the problem.

What is he feeling?

It's a loaded question, a can of worms he's not sure he wants to open. His thoughts range from Bucky to Loki to Fury to Doom, then cycle back again. A cycle of—surprise, surprise—guilt.

Tony has his projects. Bruce has his experiments. Fury has constant piles of work and probably ulcers. Clint has Natasha, Natasha has Clint. Thor…well, he's Thor.

Steve has running and drawing to distract him from leading the Avengers. That's about it. He wonders belatedly if that's a little pathetic.

Probably, says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like a certain billionaire he knows.

Too tired to run, so Steve busies himself cooking an enormous pot of pasta (one of the few perks of his metabolism). Well, not quite a for Fury or whoever in SHIELD is supporting him financially.

Sighing, he resigns himself to another quiet night.

The dishes are put away, the pots are cleaned, everything is done and Steve is somehow less tired than when he started. He taps a finger against his knee in an erratic rhythm, eyes scanning restlessly around the room.

He catches sight of his sketchbook, poking out from his bag. A few seconds later and he has an invitingly blank page on his lap.

The first few lines are difficult, halting. His pencil feels unsteady in his hands and he has to go back and redraw several sections before he's satisfied. It's quite difficult to capture the effect of Loki's long hair, or to get the expression in his eyes exactly right.

Steve closes his eyes, remembering the god's face when he saw Steve convulsing, burns red and raw. He remembers the look of power. He remembers how it made him feel with only the smallest flicker of guilt. He remembers the red eyes he's sure he saw.

The lines begin to flow from his pencil. They're big, bold, stretching across the page in heavy strokes. He thinks back and remembers a small smile. He adds a little upward quirk to Loki's mouth, a softening around the lines of his (at the time) red eyes.

Before long, Steve has the basic sketch done. He puts down his pencil and takes a good look at the drawing. It's startlingly true to his memories, the combination of satisfaction and authority. He thinks the cheekbones need some work, and the nose, but that'll have to wait until Loki comes again.

If Loki comes again.

Steve sighs and tries to put all thoughts of Loki out of his mind. It's far easier than the alternative, which is figuring out why he wants Loki to come again. He's afraid the answer will be one word, three letters, more worthy of Tony than of the upstanding Steve.

Well, supposedly upstanding, he amends hastily.

He shuts the sketchbook abruptly.

He wishes he could get Loki out of his head so easily. Stuffing the pad into his bag, he stands with full intention of heading to the gym (again). There's not much else for him to do, unless he feels like facing the judgmental stares of the other Avengers or helping Fury with his dubious experiments.

The doorbell rings. Steve whips around, heart pounding suddenly. He walks over and opens the door, doing his best to conceal his eagerness. He knows, somehow, what's coming.

Before the experiment, Steve was far from a runner. If he tried, his asthma would kick up until he was gasping on the ground, clutching his chest in vain hope of releasing the tightness. After, he found he could run miles without panting, sprint without his heart speeding up. It was exhilarating…at first.

At some point, it became calming, the acidic burn in his muscles only driving him to push harder rather than encouraging him to stop. He likes it. Yet in a way, he feels less proud of his running than before, when he could actually say it was all his hard work.

Most days, the only tightness he ever feels in his chest is the phantom clutch of his conscience. He attributes it to muscle memory, to his lungs' psychosomatic remembrance of asthma.

But now, beyond all logic, his heart is palpitating like an out of control train, thump-thump-thumping off its tracks.

Is this how I used to feel when I ran? he wonders vaguely, eyes locked on the god in front of him.

It's not, though. There are no reaching claws clasping around his lungs and heart. Instead, there's that odd heady lightness, the feeling that he's falling deeper and deeper into the abyss that is Loki.

He closes his eyes.

He knows that, really, he's already made the decision. Already taken the step forward, let himself tumble headlong into this void.

By the look of those green eyes, Loki knows it too.

Oh no, Steve thinks, and falls.


	8. Chapter 8

Something about the Captain makes Loki angry. But not a cold kind of anger, not the icy scorn he attributes to Thor.

No, it's a magnetizing heat, a burning itch to hurt, and bruise, and scar. It's a good burn, which, coming from a frost giant, is a nearly blasphemous oxymoron.

The openmouthed look on Rogers' face as Loki stands before him makes up for the dull sting of the word Jotun. Loki disappears and reappears right behind him, disregarding every tenet of being a good guest just to see Steve whip around. His blue eyes are wide and mouth slightly open. Loki can practically hear his heart racing.

The door shuts with a click.

"Here we are," Loki says dryly, voice not showing any of his irrational anger—passion, he mentally corrects himself. He's learned to perfect the skill. "So." He lets his eyes roam, slowly, waiting for the other man to move first. It takes a few seconds of watching the Captain fidget before one of them cracks.

"I don't understand," says Steve, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. Loki resists the urge to chuckle. "Why are you doing this?"

"It's what I do best. Causing trouble." It's the closest Loki's come to telling the truth in a while.

The look on Steve's face is rather alarming.

"And it's rather…enjoyable."

Steve frowns, but the sigh that passes his lips a second later evinces his relief. Insecurity is a funny thing. Loki wants to smile, rather fondly. It's the kind of smile one affords to a pet when it does something especially stupid.

Stupid to trust me, he thinks but without any real venom. Loki steps forward. He lets a false, slow smile play over his face as Steve nearly trips over his own feet at the unexpected invasion of personal space.

Rogers isn't quite flinching away but he's not leaning in either. He's trapped somewhere in the middle, in a limbo of reason warring with want, and Loki watches through slightly narrowed eyes.

"Are you still trying to…break me?" the Captain says, although it's more of a breathless gasp.

Loki can't resist the urge to play with him a little. "Be more creative. What other uses for the word break can you think of?"

He steps closer to the Captain until every inch, every line of their bodies is aligned, pressed against each other. Loki can feel a heartbeat resounding through him, but he's not sure whether it's his or Rogers'.

"Um," Steve gulps and Loki breathes in the tiny, uncertain sound.

"It would be a shame to break you," says Loki in an almost mocking way, dragging one finger around the man's neck. It's strangely erotic but also intimidating; a mark of power in that with one move he could slit the Captain's throat. He is dimly surprised when Rogers doesn't move a muscle in defense.

Their eyes locked, Rogers perfectly still, Loki challenging him not to move—it's a moment that neither one wants to see pass and a silence neither one wants to break. Loki draws circles over Steve's Adam's apple and over the very top of his spine. Invisible lines for a noose, for one simple, clean cut.

Steve's eyes stay trained on his, something new and determined in their almost viridian depths. Loki relishes the challenge.

"Breaking you in would perhaps be a better description," Loki says slowly, drawing out every word into long, heavy syllables.

Rogers twitches almost imperceptibly.

"Breaking you in," repeats Loki with a much wider, more predatory smile.

This time, Steve shudders. Whether from anticipation or unease, even Loki can't tell, but it triggers something inside of him.

"Did I say you could move?" he snaps at once and savors the mixed fear flashing over Steve's face. He feels it like an electric jolt in the air and against his skin, its aftershock the visible struggle playing out on the Captain's face.

Defiance versus guilt versus raw desire versus maybe a little bit of fear. Steve is guileless, honest, easy to read for a god attuned to the fluctuations of expression.

Maybe humans trust such a trait. But Loki is not even close to human, and somewhere along the road, trust has become a joke with infinite punchlines, a thousand iterations of the same old story. He's played the villain, the hero, the onlooker.

But there's something intoxicatingly alien about Steve's transparent mask as Loki sees his own emotions mirrored in those blue eyes. Maybe not a pure reflection of Loki's visceral thoughts but rather one that is an unbiased interpretation, a question left unfinished. Waiting for him to finish it.

Loki likes that thought and reads it all in the questioning expression, the slightly raised eyebrows, the subtle tilt of the Captain's body forward, even the fear fading so rapidly into the distance that it could have been a mirage.

The air changes from cool to charged. Charged with a desperately tempestuous energy as Loki is filled with a torrid, frenetic lust from the bottom up. It's not a gentle lust. No, it's sharp and rough and frustrated, a grabbing need for control.

His fingers wrap around the Captain's neck, squeezing very slightly, and he feels a jump in his groin at the little noise that comes from Rogers' throat. It takes only a moment for Loki to realize that he's not the only one who's hard.

Steve twists his head to look away, his cheeks flushed bright red. Loki smiles and playfully rubs a thumb against the bottom of the man's chin, like a person would pet a cat.

"Let us begin."

It all passes in a blur of hazy desire and lucid pain, up against the door for the second time, friction against the rough fabric of Steve's pants that tortures him but in a way that's perfect. In a way that leaves him thoughtless and senseless and nothing more than a bundle of want and need.

But that too flits by and Steve is frighteningly aware when he crashes into his own bed headfirst. His already bruised neck hates the angle his head is at, and he's powerless to change anything with his hands bound together with duct tape.

He has no idea why Loki felt the need to go through his drawers looking for bindings. Probably to make him wait more, knowing the god as he does.

The sheets press against his heated skin and the slithering sound of leather coming undone is clear behind him. Steve hears a ripping sound, and his hands slide free. Gasping, he tries to prop himself up from the pillow, fragments of tape still stuck around his fingers, and Loki speaks in a low voice.

"Did I say you could move?" He echoes his words from earlier in a voice that's almost husky.

Steve stiffens in anticipation. Nothing happens.

He relaxes and that's when leather comes down to strike his skin. It's what feels like a belt, something rigid and cruel at the end. He spasms involuntarily as the makeshift whip comes down to hit his back, his legs, his buttocks. Again and again. The humiliation of it all feels as if it will never abate.

After certain periods, Loki slaps him with his bare hands or stops altogether. The first couple times that happens, Steve entertains the faint notion that Loki's tired of this particular activity. Every time, he's wrong.

Steve made the mistake of raising his head once. Only once.

When it actually, finally ends, Steve automatically tenses in expectation of another smack.

Instead, Loki's fingers drag across his shoulders, lightly at first, then digging in along the ridge of his spine. Steve shivers. The sheets feel very cool against his chest, and against…

How is he still this hard? He's aware, suddenly, of the blood pulsing through him, fast, hot. He lets his face drop forward into the pillow to stifle a moan.

When did Loki's nails and the shallow cuts they're leaving behind arouse him? He can't answer those questions but all he knows is that it feels sinfully, terribly good and soon he's arching against the sheets, pressing into Loki's hand.

His upper back pulls away from the bed; the rest of him slides against it in wanton instinct. He hears Loki chuckling somewhere, in the back of his mind, in the small part of him not currently occupied with throbbing need.

"What do you want?" demands the god throatily.

It takes Steve a few moments to process the words and a few more until he can think clearly enough, through the pain and resultant pleasure, to answer. "You," he pants.

"What do you want from me?" says Loki, teasingly. His fingers leave Steve's back and Steve resists the urge to moan in protest. There's that same small part of him complaining, wondering what's happened to him, but the rest of him is positively aching.

"I want you—you—" gasps Steve as long fingers wrap around his cock and simultaneously press against somewhere he's never been touched before. "Inside," he finishes, sure of himself but unsure about why he's so sure.

The hand behind him is wet, wet and pushing. There's a tiny popping sound and Steve's eyes fly wide open in shock.

It's not unpleasant, but it's not overly pleasant either. It's strange and unusual and maybe a little awkward. Loki seems to pick up on that and, mercifully, slows his pace.

The hand tightening around his cock seems a dichotomy with the gentle discomfort of Loki moving inside of him. Another finger pressing, another finger entering and something other than discomfort is building up inside of him.

"Relax," hisses Loki commandingly.

Steve instinctively obeys, groaning both at his arousal and his easy submission.

Loki's fingers develop a steady staccato rhythm against his skin. It feels better and better with each passing moment, which doesn't make sense because Loki is controlled, careful, metrical, and his fingers don't increase in speed—

Another one goes in and brushes a spot deep inside of him softly, too softly. A cry escapes from Steve's throat. A cry he didn't even know was trapped inside of him. The pillow is wet, from tears that aren't of pain but of something else entirely. Shame paints his face bright red. He's sure Loki can see it somehow, because he hears a strained chuckle from behind him and then the fingers are gone.

"Are you ready?" breathes Loki into his ear, hair tickling Steve's neck. Steve nods, not opening his mouth for fear of what other animalistic noises will come out.

Steve feels thin rivulets of blood sticky on his back, cuts stinging against the sheets. He feels the warmth of the god above him, but, sight muzzy, can barely see him.

Loki props him up against the bedstead almost gently. Then he pushes his legs apart in a way that is anything but and suddenly, suddenly he's inside of Steve.

The psycho god, the Trickster god, Thor's brother, everything Loki's ever been to Steve and everything he ever will be—lover?—is inside of Steve at that moment and Steve has never felt so whole in his life. The pain of taking the god inside of him seems to metamorphose into something a lot dirtier and a lot more enjoyable when Loki begins to stroke his cock.

He loses control and moans, letting each moan fall into the next until it's a constant, drawn-out cry.

There is nothing in his mind but Loki. Steve blinks, blinks again as his hips seem to move of their own accord to meet with Loki's own. The sound of skin slapping rings out and Steve's eyes snap back into clarity that is, for once, blissful.

And suddenly Loki isn't all angles anymore.

He's one pure curve, the shadows stretching across his bowstring-taut back. He's sinuous, fluid. He's limned with moonlight, as if the night itself birthed him, brought him to this moment and then speckled him with watery stars.

He's debauched and beautiful and Steve can't believe he never noticed it before. Can't believe he ever thought any different. Can't believe he ever will think any different.

His breath catches in his throat at the peril of his thoughts, but it's a good kind of catching. It's a half-aborted gasp. A thought, hitching in his throat instead of leaving his lips.

The moment passes. Steve blinks, vision sliding in and out of focus. Panting, he searches for Loki's green eyes in the dark, but it's so hard to focus when all he can feel now is this overpowering heat of lust, consuming him, taking him over, coaxing primal sounds from his mouth as his body is abused. It's burning up every bit of him to leave only Loki where his heart should be, where his mind should be.

And, for the life of him, right now Steve can't see why that's a bad thing.


	9. Chapter 9

A sweat-soaked haze settles over the pair of them. Left panting in the aftermath, lying amongst the ruins of a war waged between (formerly) white sheets, an odd calm settles their heartbeats. Loki's is markedly slower than Steve's.

Loki catches the look of concern stretched lazily across the Captain's face and smiles. "Asgardian," he says. The word is a little bitter in his mouth.

Steve curves his mouth in a perfect O of realization, although no sound passes his lips. He settles onto his back, pulling subconsciously away from Loki and staring up at the ceiling.

Sitting up with the sheets tangled around his legs, Loki reads the easy expressiveness of the human's face. Really, the emotions of all humans are practically legible, although most require a little more finesse and manipulation than this.

It's a nice change from the stiff, pressed expressions of Asgardians. A nice change from the people that include him but also don't include him, that he hates but also doesn't hate. It's a nice change for someone who lives in a world of lies and contradictions.

Loki watches silently, finding the guilt interesting because it wars with something else entirely. An interesting study in human morals, flimsy and variable as they are. Interesting, since here is the supposed incorruptible Captain America, in the sheets with one of the most notorious public enemies. Unrecognizable except for the look of guilt.

That seemed to be the Captain's default expression. Even before this, this obsession to break the Captain, Loki noticed it. Stalwart determination, marked with guilt. An honest attempt at stoutness that appears during battle, also drawn with guilt.

Well, now I've finished this little project off, Loki thinks. Broken. If the Captain didn't resign before the end of the week, or confess, or even just throw himself off a bridge, Loki will be genuinely surprised.

As Loki turns away, muttering a few spells under his breath, Steve rolls over onto his side, brow creased and lip pulled tight. If Loki saw the expression, he would call it tenacity.

\---

The sound of a phone ringing crashes into Steve's thoughts. He stiffens and sits up so fast that he feels his neck crack. Slight whiplash. The pain will dissipate soon enough.

There's a brief moment of panic, of ice and water and the terrible looming certainty that this is the end and then the sudden, world-out-from-under-his-feet moment when it's not. A moment of confusion, the question of whether this is a dream or, perhaps, he is just finally awake.

The phone shrills in protest again. Loki's eyes flash in the dark beside him, feverishly, horribly, alert.

It's not his normal phone; no, it's the new one Tony forced him to install, directly plugged into the wall. It's a sort of radio. Tony can talk through it and Steve can answer, but it doesn't come unattached. Tony gave him a few other gadgets in facilitate communication during times of panic. Right now this is the only one he hears.

Now it's ringing and ringing and Steve is irrationally afraid that Loki will sense what he's thinking. He's debating on how exactly to answer the device when it begins to talk.

No, no, no, he thinks as Tony's voice comes through. He'll hear, don't…

Even unintentionally, Tony doesn't follow his orders.

"There's an attack on—" Tony says and that's all Steve hears before he dives headfirst out of the bed. He hears Loki curse in heavy Asgardian behind him, then the beginnings of rustling among the sheets.

Steve lands unsteadily, rolling over to take the sting out of the impact. He makes a grab at his shield, stuffed underneath his bed, and pulls it out.

Keeping his shield aloft, several blasts of magic thud into it. He stays there for a few seconds, panting despite the strange calm within him.

His heart is palpitating but he knows it's not from the danger he's in. Making a split-second decision, Steve leaps to his feet, and, holding his shield at his back, throws himself through the bedroom window.

A beam of green light flashes by his nose. Steve crashes into his own patio a split second later. He allows himself a wince. Glass pokes into his sides, and the stone is cold against his chest.

Mental note: next time, land on the shield.

Then Loki is leaping from his window to land with catlike grace before him, somehow fully decked out in Asgardian armor sans helmet. Steve rolls over as another beam cracks the stone next to him, then another. His head is spinning but he has no time to hesitate, no time to stop moving because Loki is already coming after him—

Steve ducks the next bolt but is thrown backwards by a sudden force slamming into his shield. The world rolls around and around. He skids across the patio, feels the open air beneath him an instant before he actually falls.

He allows himself a moment of pure, unadulterated panic as the wind fills his ears. It feels like an eternity.

Then his mind begins to work. Reaching out blindly, he feels his hand catch on the side of someone else's patio briefly and he scrabbles for a—

Then he is weightless, unmoving, floating back up and up through the darkness. Little flickers of green dance around his arms and legs and he wonders, inanely, what Loki can possibly say to explain this. This seemingly random, almost human act of leniency.

But he knows that even if he asked the inimical god will not answer him, will not tell him anything because he is Loki. That's explanation enough.

Thus when Loki's face comes back into view, Steve doesn't say a thing. He takes the moment to study the strange weariness in the god's eyes and the slackening around the lips, signs of weariness. And if Loki is showing any amount of fatigue, he must be on the brink of exhaustion.

Then the god's face changes abruptly. With an outwardly careless flick of his finger, he sends Steve slamming back into the ruins of the patio, his shield skittering out of his hand, pain sparking behind his eyes. He bites back a cry.

His shield is barely out of reach. He stretches out to grab it, flinching at the stabbing pain in his thigh. Loki moves it away an inch and watches him with a darkly playful look in his eyes. Steve doesn't appreciate it in the least.

"What a nice sight," smirks Loki. Steve starts with shock as he realizes he's still fully nude. Fully nude and bleeding from where several shards of glass and rock have embedded themselves in his skin. Knowing Loki's particular kinks, Steve would feel afraid if his chastity hadn't already been thoroughly and completely destroyed.

Steve shudders, moves as if he's going to cower, then abruptly changes directions and lunges for his shield. He snatches it, hanging onto the straps by his fingertips. Pain blossoms briefly in his thigh. He ignores it.

Loki just laughs. "Give up and make it easier for both of us."

Steve grits his teeth and stands. Loki steps forward. His helmet's great curved horns loom in Steve's vision, reflecting the light blindingly.

…light?

Steve hears a whirring sound and instinctively backs up. He's been around Tony enough to know what that means.

There's a tremendous bang and he sees Loki visibly stumble, genuine annoyance showing through his smirk.

"Step away from the Captain, Loki."  
Tony, no, Iron Man is hovering in the air directly behind Loki, one metal hand raised. Tiny wisps of smoke curl up from the palm. Loki stiffens briefly before turning around slowly, arms raised in a movement he somehow makes insulting.

"Or what, Stark," sneers Loki, mask back in place. "Are you going to arrest me? How charming."

Steve watches the pair face off with a feeling akin to disappointment. He's not quite sure whether he's disappointed in Loki's mask coming back up or by the fact that it can come up so easily.

He ignores the nagging voice in his head saying you think you know Loki? in a mocking tone eerily reminiscent of the god himself.

Thigh bleeding, Steve takes a step forward. His brain is already assessing the situation, instincts and rationalizations synchronizing in a rare moment of clarity.

Loki can't win, Steve thinks, justifying the thought with Loki's last-ditch smirk, the one he's seen only once before. Sparks of magic fly around his palms but they are a sickly green. Tony's suit, on the other hand, whirs threateningly. Steve knows from the time it's taking to fire and how it's glowing from the chest, not the hands, that it's going to be a lethal shot.

The thought of this impromptu execution sickens him.

"Tony…" he says weakly. Stop.

Tony seemingly hears his thoughts and responds. "Why?" rasps the slightly metallic voice of Iron Man.

Is this really justice?

He can practically hear Tony laughing at his thoughts already. No, Steve might believe in justice of the law but Tony believes in vengeance. He needs another reason, another argument other than it's wrong.

The uni-beam prepares to fire. Loki holds up one hand, shielding himself against the light, and Steve can see that he's trembling slightly.

"Thor," blurts Steve. The whirring slows. "We have to bring him back, for Thor's sake if nothing else."

Tony nods his assent a heartbeat before blasting Loki full-force with both of his hand repulsors.

"Dammit, Tony!" Steve nearly screams as Loki crumples forward onto the patio.

"I'm doing us both a favor. Hey, he's still here. Guess we really got him, not some duplicate," says Tony, landing and walking up to the prone god. The sound of his suit's footsteps sounds almost rusty.

"What's up with your armor?" says Steve, shield appropriately positioned to cover as much of himself as possible.

"I was in a rush, same as you," Tony looks up before averting his eyes carefully. Steve blushes. "Except I actually had time to put some clothes on, No-Spangles."

Steve edges along towards his bedroom window. "Do I have time to…"

"Yes, yes, please," mutters Tony, poking at Loki. "I hate to say it, but I actually prefer the spandex."

Turning abruptly to make a sprint for his bedroom, Steve hears what sounds like a choked gasp. He glances back. But Tony's eyes are firmly fixed on Loki, who isn't stirring except for the faint rise and fall of his armored chest.

Steve shrugs internally and climbs through his bedroom window.

\---

"No, that's not right," says Tony, quietly enough that Steve knows he's talking to someone via his suit. "I've got him right here with me. No—I don't care what Doom is saying! I'm carrying Loki right here, are you even lis—I knocked him out, I'm not a complete idiot like some people I could ment—Fine! Fine!"

"Fury?" Steve says dryly.

"Fury," confirms Tony. "Doom is supposedly holding our favorite psycho god." He shakes Loki in unnecessary demonstration. Loki's mouth flops open almost comically. "Think we're going to have to tell him he's got the wrong magical reindeer."

"So, what's the situation?"

"What's the situation—God, Captain, you crack me up sometimes. So military it hurts."

"Tony."

"Don't get your spangled panties in a twist. I'll explain. Here, hold on to my left arm—left, my left—and get Rock of Ages on my right. It's going to be slow with the pair of you but as long as he stays unconscious, we'll make it."

Steve does as instructed. The lopsided trio, listing to the left, rises about forty unsteady feet in the air. Then Tony's rockets stutter briefly and they plummet.

"Jarvis," says Tony, sounding wearily irritated as the air screams by their faces. "Fifty percent power to the thrusters, please."

It takes a few minutes, but eventually they settle into a clumsy formation: Steve clinging to Tony's suit for dear life and stretched halfway across the chest plate to balance the weight. Loki hangs off of Tony's right arm like a wet noodle.

The god shows no sign of waking up, although he twitches occasionally. At once point, a little spark of magic dances over his fingertip. Tony and Steve flinch for entirely different reasons.

For Steve, the scenery changes all too slowly. It may be the anxiety of what is to come. It may be the fact that Iron Man, burdened as he is by one Asgardian sorcerer and a none too light soldier on steroids, is barely staying up in the air.

Nevertheless, a few (relatively) tranquil moments manage to slip by as Steve loses himself in thoughts of art. Particularly abstract art.

That, of course, ends when Loki wakes up, the peaceful expression of unconsciousness on his face transmuting into momentary panic.

"Do try not to piss yourself, Reindeer Games," says, or rather, shouts, Tony, sounding gleeful even through his suit. Concentration shattered, Steve gives up trying to think of a new art project and stares down at the city passing beneath their feet.

The wind is obtrusive enough that he does not expect the pair to talk again. It certainly dissuaded him from trying to get information from Tony, although he has a slight suspicion that the man might have been purposely difficult. Well, how would I know, maybe he really can't hear.

He's wrong.

That figures. When will I be able to ever understand Tony? Or Loki, for that matter?

"Make one move and I blast you again," threatens Tony after about ten buildings of silence. He stops to shake the god around like a rag dol, consequently swinging Steve around as well. It feels as if his brain is slamming into the side of his skull.

"Stark, I swear," Steve mutters before realizing he can't even hear his own voice in the wind. "Tony!" he shouts. "Would you stop—"

Loki looks mildly annoyed at the familiarity between the two. "Tony?" he says disgustedly, although whether it's from the name or the swinging Steve's not sure.

"Yes, Rudolph. I do have a name outside of Stark, or Man of Iron." Tony does a few loop-de-loops as a sort of fanfare and Steve catches a little smile on Loki's face.

"Hey, Cap, how's the motion sickness going," calls Tony. He does a few aerial cartwheels in the suit, Loki and Steve flying along behind him like the tail of a kite. Steve closes his eyes resolutely.

"I do not have motion sickness, Tony, it's just you," mutters Steve irritably, eyes still conspicuously shut. "Aren't we supposed to be fighting somewhere?"

"Right you are, Van Gogh," Tony says. With one more flip, they're speeding through the air faster than before. Which isn't saying much, but to the slightly nauseated Steve, it feels like a considerable change.

"Van Gogh?" shouts Loki, sounding puzzled. "Isn't he the Midgardian artis—"

"You know who Van Gogh is?" Steve raises his eyebrows, the wind distorting his look of confusion.

"Do not mock me, human," snarls Loki defensively. "It is mere—"

"Hey, hey, no fighting," says Tony. His tone is somewhere between catfight! and quiet down, daddy's got a headache. "Steve's an artist as well, you know. Gives you guys something to talk about before we get there."

Steve glares at Tony, suit be damned. "That's why he calls me Van Gogh."

"Not because of Starry Night?"

"Finally someone gets it!" Tony crows. Then, it's his turn to be confused. "Wait, you know Starry Night too?"

Loki is about to bite out another scathing retort when Tony hurriedly continues, sensing danger in the god's demeanor.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that. Unless you're planning on blowing it up. Then there might be a small conflict of interests."

Loki opens his mouth, finds himself speechless, and closes it with a sulky huff. Tony makes a metallic sound that Steve suspects, correctly, is a chuckle.


	10. Chapter 10

"So, how is it without your woman?"

The question comes suddenly. Loki sounds deceivingly conversational, as if they're not flying above the New York skyline with the wind drowning out every other word.

Steve glares at him. He can practically hear Tony debating on whether or not it's worth Thor's wrath to drop the god.

But instead the man asks in a monotone: "How did you know that?"

A split second of surprise registers on the god's face before Loki recovers his smirk. "It's obvious in the way you're act—"

"Don't bullshit me. How—did—you—know?" Tony snaps. It's plainly taking a lot of self-control not to do anything other than shout.

Loki grins, but his eyes are coldly uneasy.

"Tony, calm down," Steve says as commandingly as he can. Tony shoots him a glare.

Loki seems to consider responding before thinking better of it. "We appear to have arrived," he says instead and Steve, twisting precariously in Tony's grip, sees he's right.

Tony mutters something in exasperation. He comes to an abrupt stop and tosses Loki into the air.

"What the—" Steve starts, his voice lost in the wind.

"Jarvis, fire the right hand repulsor, one hundred percent. Time to give this little prima donna the ride of a lifetime."

Loki, falling, is blasted backwards by the shot. Tony flies forward to catch him carelessly by the leg. Steve nearly drops his shield.

"I'm not going to trust him awake," shouts Tony for Steve's benefit.

"Liar—"

"Okay, maybe, that did feel pretty fucking good. Now, where should I drop you?"

"Drop me…" Steve scans the buildings below him, analyzing the situation, and doing his best to forget the sight of Loki's falling body. "Give me a second to check for the most strategic drop point."

It's a mark of how serious things are that Tony doesn't even make an obnoxious comment about his discipline. Steve finds himself wishing for it. The absence feels off, strange, like the phantom pains of a missing limb.

But now Tony is muttering into his helmet indistinctly, hefting a terrifyingly unresponsive Loki, and there's no time to reflect on the man's obnoxiousness or lack thereof.

Breathing in with renewed energy, Steve runs his eyes over the scene in front of him and begins to plan.

Returning to consciousness is like a drowsy sort of floating for Loki. A slow, prolonged drawl of his dreams mixed with thoughts that border on conscious. In reality, he suspects this in-between state only lasts for a millisecond, but it feels much, much longer.

Except not this time. No, this time he's startled into wakefulness by a change in the air—a change he hasn't felt for a long time. A magical shift, a slip in the continuum, a little rip in what should and should not exist on Midgard.

Something, someone is using battle magic near him, something very obviously other than himself. That is enough to both wake him up and imbue him with the disorientation most Midgardians take for granted.

The first thing he realizes is that it's been a considerable amount of time since he was knocked out. At least several hours. Yet there's still battle magic, somewhere, somewhere near him. The battle should be long done, unless he's vastly underestimated the abilities of the Captain.

Obviously, the pure hearted and holier-than-thou Avengers have won again. If they hadn't, there's no way he'd still be here, sitting calmly with with a pricking feeling in his leg. In an achingly familiar glass room, very similar to the one in which he was tricked by the Black Widow. That, even he has to admit, was clever.

But this is different; they are taking a very no-holds-barred approach this time. The entire back window is covered with machinery and, by the whirring, it sounds active. Weapons, he doesn't doubt. Weapons he has no idea how to control or to manage, even with his magic.

And surely there are cameras in the room even if he tries to examine the weapons, ready to report back to Stark or the monster Banner or anybody at all, really. Loki supposes that after being knocked out by Stark's blast, they realized he wasn't quite as immune to Midgardian weaponry as he likes to seem.

He moves to stand before realizing he's bound to an uncomfortable wooden chair.

With an exasperated sigh, he melts the bindings around his chest with an ease he wishes he'd had with Doom. Then, only hesitating the slightest bit, he bends down to examine the pricking sensation in his leg.

A blue fluid, like liquid sky, runs through a tiny clear tube that's flowing into him.

He considers removing it. He's about to actually do it when a voice he knows well—Stark's—comes through. "Do it and we make the scary, shiny things over there go boom. Trust me, there's nothing I'd rather do, Reindeer Games."

Loki leans back with a manicured little sigh, as if he's deciding not to pull out the tube out of generosity and not self-preservation. No, he's definitely not concerned about being blown to little godly pieces.

He thinks about the tube instead, which, unfortunately, is the lesser of the two evils.

Loki has never been fond of the thought of his viscera, never understood how Midgardians plunge needles into their own wrists without a shudder, how they even like it. He's never liked thinking about his insides, or his own blood, maybe because it makes him weak. Because he's never had a problem thinking about other people's blood.

Because it didn't bother him when the Captain bled. No, it felt good.

So why does this make me feel so—helpless?

Loki hates the feeling of the tube. He hates the slow, drowsy sensation that he attributes to the blue liquid. He feels his magic, buzzing like a hive of bees in the pit of his stomach, unaffected by whatever sedative is trickling into his veins. Although his eyelids are beginning to droop, that, at least, is a small relief.

He breathes slowly, even for him. He breathes like that until his muscles seem to relax within him and he looks as if he's falling asleep, as the drug is doubtless intended to do. He breathes like that until it's only his magic that keeps his mind working at a steady pace.

This is almost as bad as being trapped with Doom.

Almost.

The conference room doors open with a bang. "Banner, Thor," announces Fury, striding towards the table where the Avengers sit in varying states of disarray. "We have any data on the alien hostiles?"  
The battle hadn't been particularly difficult. Steve rests his head on the table. It hadn't been difficult until some of the robots demonstrated some rather—as Tony put it—interesting properties.

Steve's never been one for robotics but even he knows that when a robot starts spitting magic, there's something not quite right. Ever since the battle ended, Tony has been too occupied mumbling calculations to dumb anything down for Steve.

So Steve knows nothing other than the apparent fact that Dr. Doom claimed to have Loki a few minutes before they left with the aforementioned god in tow. From the look of it, the others don't know much more than he does.

"They were not alien hostiles," says Thor finally. "They were mostly Midgardian technology."

"He's right," chimes in Bruce. "From the video footage from Tony's suit, it's obvious that they're mostly man-made. That said, there's some sort of magical element involved here."

Tapping the keys a few times, Bruce swivels the laptop around and plays a brief clip of Dr. Doom's bots. Steve notices himself on the right, fighting alongside Natasha. Clint is visible on a patio above them. Thor is smashing a robot into tiny pieces.

Jarvis advises Tony in cool tones to target a certain bot for the central communication system. Tony makes a comment and Steve hears both his own voice and Natasha's snapping "Stark" simultaneously.

Then a jet of light pulses from Tony's hand repulsor and slams into the targeted bot. Instead of shattering, the air around the bot flashes a dark blue and then, violently, explodes.

Bruce pauses the video. "I'm guessing that was not part of Doom's plan."

"Still working out glitches," Tony adds. "Not to mention his bluff about having Loki. He was obviously surprised when Thor didn't rise to that bait. No offense, big man."

"None taken, Man of Iron."

"So he was counting on being able to use Loki, and he has possible otherworldly help that may or may not actually include Loki." Fury raises an eyebrow.

"But then why would he offer up Loki as bait?" Clint says, puzzled.

"Maybe he managed to trick Loki?" Steve knows it's a bad answer even before Tony throws him a disparaging look.

"Trick the god of tricksters? No, that's what he tried to do but he didn't succeed. Doom is playing someone else's game here. He's got nothing strategic to gain from this. He's not even causing major destruction. The sole purpose of today seemed to be to bait us—Thor—into something using Loki."

Steve exchanges a thoroughly lost look with Thor. "I'll take your word for it, Tony."

Fury straightens up. "Either way, Loki is involved. We can hold him until we figure out a way to get him to talk. I think Hill was working with a few other agents on some test—"

"I shall inform the Allfather of Loki's reappearance," announces Thor. "I am sorry, Director, but I believe he will want Loki in Asgard as soon as possible."

"So go and tell the Allfather that we have our own business with Loki," spits Fury. Thor's face darkens.

"You do not tell the Allfather what to do. Loki is our responsibility, not you—"

"He was, is directly involved with Dr. Doom! He is very much our fucking responsibility!" Fury shouts, slamming his hand down on the table. He takes a deep breath. "Thus, I think we should at least get a couple hours to see what we can get out of him before handing him over to Asgard and their evidently useless prison system!"

Thor takes a breath. "I understand that you are upset and wish to deal with him yourself." He sounds physically pained in his admittance. "I will allow you a few hours to get what you can from my brother—but harm him and you will answer directly to the Allfather."

"Oh, thank you," comes Fury's sarcastic reply.

Loki is dozing in a haze of boredom when he hears the door slam open. Someone he vaguely recognizes as the leader, the man with dark skin and an even darker eye patch, marches stiffly into the room. His remaining eye is squinted so tightly that Loki's surprised he can see at all.

"Bring me the Captain," says Loki before the Director can even open his mouth. He sighs theatrically, maybe to mask the blind impulse behind and maybe just to occupy the time as Fury sputters. "Bring me the Captain and then, maybe, I'll talk."

"What makes you think I should listen to anything you say?" the man snaps, with a simmering anger that's too strong to be entirely directed at Loki. Loki picks at his nails.

"Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be, please," he says without looking up. He hears what sounds like a growl from the man in front of him. "You obviously need something from me before I go back to my happy little family in Asgard."

This time, Loki's sure he hears a growl. "Yes, we do. But I'll have you know that we have every weapon in the area pointed precisely at you right now and we will fire if you try anythingto escape."

"Obvious, irresponsible, and sloppy," counts Loki on his fingers. "I do believe this is a more impressive display of incompetence than I've seen in a while."

"Pointed precisely at you."

"I think we can both agree that I will not tell you a single thing of any importance, not now, not ever. And as my brother Thor has most assuredly told you, I have a high pain tolerance. I do believe that exhausts you of ways to make me talk."

The director groans softly and looks up at the ceiling. "I'm on the verge of ordering Stark to come down here and deal with him instead."

"Try, if you will. I shan't say a word."

"Unfortunately, I believe you."

"Then are we in agreement? Send the Captain down."

Fury mutters something under his breath then takes a deep breath. "Gladly," the man says darkly.

For once, Loki doesn't think he's lying.


	11. Chapter 11

"So you're blaming Loki for your girlfriend breaking up with you," comes the Director's caustic voice through the door. His voice is just bordering on cold, edged with sharp exasperation. Steve pauses outside the conference room, unsure whether it's better to interrupt before this turns into an argument or to dodge the bullet entirely.

Agent Hill sent the Captain to inform Fury that Loki is awake and ready to be interviewed. Steve did not, however, expect to be interrupting Fury and Tony, of all people, in the midst of what sounds like a serious conversation.

"No," says Tony. "Disappearance. A breakup note, okay, fine—but I can't find her anywhere. No record of her leaving on a passenger plane, no recent car rentals, nothing at all. Her family hasn't seen her for days."

"And you know this why…?" The Director doesn't bother to conceal the condescension lacing his words. "Hate to say it, Stark, but I'd be avoiding you too. In fact, I'd be avoiding you even under normal circumstances."

"Ooh, the cyclops cracks a joke," Tony says without venom. "I'm better than you give me credit for—" Fury makes a disbelieving sound—"I am. Shut up. People don't just disappear from Tony Stark. This is a very significant coincidence, if it is one. Loki knows Pepper and I aren't together but how?"

"Gossip magazines?"

Tony heaves a sigh. "Just ask Reindeer Games while you're in there, all right? That's all I'm asking of you. Don't even wait for an answer if you're so impatient. I'll be watching."

"Okay, Stark," Fury concedes tiredly. Steve, without hesitating, takes advantage of the lull in conversation and cracks open the door. Poking his head in, he sees Tony standing in front of the window, back to a very exasperated looking Director at the head of the conference table.

"Director," Steve says, stopping himself before he adds a "sir" to the end. A rush of nostalgia, unexpectedly powerful, catches him by surprise. "Agent Hill…asked me to inform you that Loki is awake."

_Sir._

Steve's head is buzzing. The absent "sir", somehow, is the catalyst for a reaction always simmering near the surface. An absent sir, plus the exhaustion of a finished battle, plus the melancholy of being stuck out of time. Everything seems to catch up to him all at once.

Maybe he's breaking down. Like Tony. Tony doesn't know Steve knows about the nervous breakdowns. But Steve found out. It's his responsibility to take care of the team, after all.

He found out around the same time he started calling Stark "Tony".

Steve takes a deep breath, clinging to the things he knows, the things he needs to do:  _Loki. Interrogation. Dr. Doom._

A voice breaks through the haze. "You know, it's a little difficult to use a door when a Capsicle is standing right in the way."

Then Steve blinks, blinks again and he's no longer a man frozen in time but an Avenger. "Sorry," he says automatically, and steps out of the way. Tony brushes past him. Steve trails after him for a few steps, adrift in the hallway, before feeling a wave of dizziness come over him.

 _Not again,_ he thinks and leans against the wall. He knows, rationally, that it'll pass in a few seconds; that he'll stop remembering the war, the ice, his friends soon enough.

But right now, he can't stop himself from shivering.

* * *

Steve's not surprised in the slightest when, later, Fury hands Loki-duty over to him. He's the Captain; he's supposed to be responsible, unfaltering even when nobody on the team has slept or had a moment's peace since Doom's attack on New York earlier that...well, yesterday, technically.

But he's still a little paranoid.  _What if Loki tries something? What if I give in? What if I have a breakdown in the interrogation?_

He manages to push away the intrusive thoughts with surprising ease. The thought of talking to Loki again somehow drives all other concerns out of his mind.

His footsteps echo down the hallway leading to Loki's makeshift cell. His earlier breakdown feels like a distant memory: as if his life is separated from here on out into two parts, Loki and everything else. He passes a small group of guards, heading down the hallway, and gives them a nod.

Fury and the other Avengers are probably debating over his chances at getting Loki to talk. He doubts that his odds are too good. He can imagine Clint and Tony placing bets in the observation room, Natasha maybe putting in some money if she's got a good gut feeling. Bruce will refrain, as usual, with the usual excuse of his big green friend's...temper problem when it comes to gambling.

He reaches Loki's prison and waits as the two guards flanking the entrance cross-check his permissions and the security of the cell. Steve doesn't pay much attention. He knows, like the other Avengers, that none of those defenses will be useful (really, an automatic alarm system is practically useless anyway) if Loki puts his mind to escaping—he knows, with cold certainty, that these two guards would be the first to die.

It's easier if he doesn't pay attention. It's easier, it's safer for everyone if the Captain keeps his head while talking to one of the most dangerous criminals in custody.

The doors slide open. The (Steve tries to avoid the word  _expendable_  in his head) guards nod. Steve enters, face blank.

The first thing Steve does is scan the room, taking in the discarded plastic tube, blue liquid spilling out. He winces. Obviously not effective in suppressing Loki's magic or even his physical capacities. He makes a mental note to tell Bruce and Tony before remembering that they're watching this all, via the various cameras hidden in the ceiling. At least with Loki here, they can just use his readings rather than Thor's. On the other hand, they might not have an opportunity before Loki escapes. Steve wishes, not for the first time, that he had some sort of power outside of brute force.

Another disadvantage of the 21st century is that the foes tend to be more like Tony than like Steve. Smarter, with the capacity to be weaker—who needs strength when you have robots to protect you, fight for you, anything?

And Loki. Loki is a different matter entirely—a different type of strength. A type of strength that Steve doesn't understand, that nobody other than Thor even vaguely understands. And Thor's understanding is limited to experience.

_How did Tony beat Loki last time?_

Surprise, partially. Loki probably wasn't expecting a knockout blow while flying midair. He'd just been blasted by Tony a while earlier, true; but that usually wasn't nearly so potent. He and Steve fought earlier. And...

Well. Steve feels the tiniest bit less guilty. If his...entanglement with Loki had even slightly lead to his capture, perhaps that was worth it.

_But it won't be worth anything if Loki escapes._

"Correct me if I'm misinformed, but I do believe an interrogation involves actual talking," says Loki, looking inordinately relaxed, smug, and dangerous. Steve can practically hear alarm bells going off at the god's attitude. He has no chance with threats, no chance at all. Loki is powerful, too self-possessed to be cowed by empty words.

An idea pops into his head, the opposite of what he'd normally do but Lord—this is Loki. It's probably best to opt for the unconventional when Loki is involved.

Steve shrugs. "I'm glad you think so." He lets the silence stretch on. Loki's expression doesn't fade but his eyes narrow.

Boredom. Boredom is what really bothers people like Tony, people like Doom, even gods like Loki. They're all of the same ilk in Steve's mind.

"So how'd Dr. Doom defeat you?" Steve says casually, breaking the almost oppressive quiet. Loki doesn't respond immediately. But he leans almost imperceptibly in Steve's direction.

"You can do better than that," says Loki scathingly. "Trying to provoke me into telling you things?"

"It's not so far off base, apparently. Dr. Doom did say you were his hostage—and your illusion appeared, fighting by the side of his robots. I'd say that makes you a little subordinate."

"And yet here I am." Loki's posture is more guarded now, more restrained.

"Yet here you are," Steve agrees slowly. "But you've even provided his robots with magic. Upgrading his pets for him seems pretty friendly. We saw what they could—"

Loki starts, very visibly surprised, and Steve feels a rush of dark satisfaction. "You haven't, have you? At least not willingly."

Loki hisses. He seems to connect the dots a second before Steve himself does. "As if that is possible for a Midgardian." But the fury, so clear on his face, speaks volumes.

"He's been using you—using your magic—" Steve is surprised at the revelation, maybe nearly as surprised as Loki. He lets it show in the almost questioning tone of his voice.

"That is  _not possible_ ," says Loki, punctuating his words in paroxysms of sudden uncertainty. "Not for a Midgardian alone, especially not for one as weak as Doom, who is as  _juvenile_ as to lust after the Avengers like a child with a prized toy—"

"Then explain," says Steve. He can almost hear Fury groaning from the observation room above at his interruption, but his mouth is running purely on impulse. "How would he—"

" _Enough_." The anger is gone, replaced with frustrated irritation. Whatever fleeting confidence Steve had dissipates at the god's tone. He knows, somehow, that the interrogation is over.

Steve makes as if to leave. A wall of ice stops him.

* * *

Loki would probably be ironically impressed if he wasn't so furious.

_I am not letting the Captain leave with that disgustingly righteous look on his face._

He waves one hand theatrically. A layer of ice forms on the glass, cloudy and opaque, extending to coat the sides of the room. He wonders vaguely why his magic doesn't twinge as it is wont to do lately and feels another surge of cold fury at Doom. As much as he hates to admit it, Steve's words strike a chord within him, as if he's known this all along.

His makeshift ice cage makes him feel infinitely better, the cold making him feel safer, at home, powerful. Like he hasn't just possibly given away too much to a man who he underestimated as guileless. Even if that hadn't been guile exactly. Manipulation would be a better word for it. Maybe  _weak_ if Loki's in the self-hating mood.

He catches the newfound, nervous look in Steve's eyes, fixed on him, and smirks. Steve looks away, visibly embarrassed. Loki's tempted to let him stay that way for the hell of it.

But as amusing as that prospect sounds, he has other plans for the Captain.

"You really don't think they can't see us now? That they can't aim their weapons outside at you?" says Steve, breaking through Loki's thoughts. He stands rigid, his posture too good to be entirely comfortable. Loki's surprised he isn't shivering.

"Oh, you humans are so transparent," Loki snaps. "Your— _leader_ —glanced at the cameras in this room at least five times. Even an imbecile could see that."

"And you think you know how to work—"

"Midgardian machinery? Oh, I won't presume to know how it functions. But breaking it…?" He gestures vaguely around the room. Steve winces at the resulting cracks from inside the machinery.

"They won't bother to fire if you're here and they can't tell where either of us are."

Steve hesitates. Loki presses the advantage. "I could be anywhere. I could already be out from here. This could just be a clone, wasting your time while I take apart this pathetic flying monstrosity piece by piece."

"But in the meantime..." Loki says, anger slowly disappearing to be replaced with something much more heated. "Should I show you what happens to pets that misbehave?"

* * *

At the first thrust, Loki watches the last modicum of shame and reluctance leaves Steve's body. He watches it leave in shudders, in moans, in the obscene sounds that make Loki almost wish the cameras were on. The expression on Steve's face would be priceless.

But it'd be satisfying for other reasons too. Showing that he—not the Avengers—really  _owned_ the Captain. Steve was his, not theirs, his pet and off-limits. Oh, wouldn't that be the perfect revenge. Taking the human that makes him the most angry, humiliating him, owning him—

The thought makes him shudder, mostly because he knows it's dangerous. Because everything that has ever been wholly his has been taken from him at some point or another. He leans forward, one hand steadied against the table.

He speeds up the rhythm of their bodies, harder, faster, as if the influx of sensation can take away the sudden fear in the pit of his stomach.

_And that's what it is, isn't it? Fear?_

It can't be. It shouldn't be. Why would he be—afraid?

Loki is an excellent liar but the hardest person to lie to has always been himself.

* * *

The table is cold and unyielding against his skin, his face an inch from the black surface. Steve closes his eyes. Every inch of skin is in overdrive, every nerve on edge and flooded with adrenaline. The cruel pressure of Loki's hand on his back only adds to the blissfully effect: the feeling of absolute helplessness, when even his mind is under Loki's full control.

_I need this._

It's a realization that he knows he'll regret later. That this isn't just that he's being forced. He wants, he needs it; to be destroyed from the inside out, to forget who and what he is.

_I need more._

But it's an edict that remains thoroughly unspoken, because his thoughts lie somewhere between complete gibberish and flashes of raw emotion. Unspoken, but not overlooked. Loki digs his nails in harder, the heat of his body against Steve's scarred back, the little satisfied gasps he releases showing how pleased Steve makes him.

The thought only arouses Steve more. He rolls his hips forward desperately, trapped between a hot body and an icy surface, giving in to the two extremes and feeling himself come completely undone.


	12. Chapter 12

Steve has officially decided that sex makes him stupid. Or, at least, sex with a particular god makes him stupid. Like he's on a sort of a high—it's a flippant kind of feeling. Nice if he doesn't think about it. He doesn't really feel like he's thinking about anything, anymore—it's more like he's watching everything pass by, while his mind works at a exponentially slower pace.

He imagines it's a little like being drunk. Not really having a filter for what comes out of his mouth, which, for him, is quite unusual. Maybe that's why, as he's buttoning up his shirt, he decides to try and pull some information out of Loki.

Of course, being drunk on hormones doesn't help his subtlety. "So...do I get some sort of reward for that or are you going to leave me to fend off the others by myself?" Steve internally cringes.  _God, I sound like Tony minus the genius._

"Do not be impudent, pet," says Loki, although he looks amused. He sighs delicately. "I suppose I'll allow you one question, if you must."

"So gener—uhh." Steve tries to cut off the sarcasm. He hasn't said something like that since he was a child—manners were something he taught himself from an early age. Loki taps his fingernails against the table evenly.

"What are Doom's plans for the Avengers?" A long shot, but he's not clever enough even in normal circumstances to come up with anything better.

The tapping stops. "I…cannot answer that."

"Fine," says Steve, attempting to check his reflection in the ice. Loki begins to tap his fingers again, rhythmically, steadily—

"Then say why you knew Tony had broken up with Pepper."

Loki snorts. "The girl? You all should know by now, surely. Doom has her."

"What? Why?"

"Isn't it—as you Midgardians put it— _obvious_? I am surprised Doom has not informed you all of the fact." Loki seems to consider his own words, briefly, as it they might be used against him, as if they will turn on him the instant they pass his lips. He shrugs almost imperceptibly. "It is of no consequence."

Steve has the vague feeling that that information is somehow important. Unfortunately, his mind can't seem to process things at a normal speed anymore—so what comes out is: "How do you know?"

He wants to take the words back as soon as he's said them. Of  _course_ Loki knows; he's allied with Doom. And reminding him of the fact is only going to remind him why Steve made him so angry in the first place.

But Loki doesn't snap back. He hums deep in his throat in an inhuman way that Steve can only liken to purring.

"I saw her, sometimes," the god says finally, eyes playful. "In Doom's measly rock of a home."

* * *

When the Captain has gathered himself up somewhat and finished his questions (the vast majority of which go unanswered), Loki begins to melt the ice.

He finds it amusing, to watch water trickle down the wall of ice and know that it's not because of a change in temperature; really, the water is just as cold as the ice itself. It's his own magic that allows it to bend the rules of Midgard.

As he does this, he allows himself to watch the Captain. The Midgardian is busy looking anywhere but Loki, straightening out the lapel of his shirt and fidgeting with the sleeves.

Loki has to admit, though; Steve's covering his tracks well, all things considered. Only someone experienced with matters like this could fully erase the flush from his cheeks, or the slightly off-kilter way he walks. To Loki, there's even a very distinctive smell—but it would be improbable that a Midgardian would register that as anything but sweat.

Midgardians are, in every way, inferior to Asgardians. It's what he has been taught since childhood; it's what even Thor has been taught, even if he tries to hide it in interests of diplomacy.

Yet the abilities of the Midgardians seem to have gotten the best of him. Again. Even if this time it was the bad guy—Dr. Doom—rather than the Avengers. Loki's not sure whether that makes it better or worse, whether being duped by someone who should, theoretically, be closer to him is more shameful than being defeated by a motley group of heroes.

Loki feels something hard and sardonic rising in his throat and swallows it down.

* * *

The ice is a hair away from transparency when Steve feels Loki's fingers on his neck. He stiffens.

The icy fingers slide down to caress—that's the only word Steve can think for it—his back, the already fading scars.  _Especially_ the scars. Loki traces each one with a single fingernail.

"Oh, I do think these will need redoing soon," the god murmurs, a viciously soft promise uttered a second before the ice dissipates completely. Steve arranges his face in a neutral expression. The cold seems to lift as Loki takes several steps back.

Steve's skin tingles, as if the ghosts of Loki's touch remain, lighting up every nerve. He takes a deep breath. He'll need to be calm for this, he'll need to be composed: he does know a little more about Doom and Loki now, at least.

_But how am I going to explain why Loki told me?_

Fury, flanked by the two agents from outside and closely trailed by Natasha, enters the cell looking very blank. Which, as Steve knows from personal experience, just means that he's very, _very_ angry.

"Captain," says Natasha curtly, jerking her head towards the door. He walks towards her, trying desperately not to limp or to betray a hint of pain on his face. The pain is already fading, anyway, but not quickly enough to make him look completely fine.

Her eyes are questioning. Steve pretends not to notice as he almost stumbles out of the room, suddenly lightheaded.

* * *

That woman—the Black Widow?—will probably guess what has happened just from seeing Steve's walk. Loki doubts anyone else will.

_Then they will think I…brutalized their poor Captain. Oh, dear._

So Loki gets a savage pleasure from seeing, as predicted, the Widow's eyes widen infinitesimally when Steve walks in their direction. The blond man mutters "later" in response to their tacit questions and inquiring eyes. Although the Captain probably doesn't guess just how many questions Natasha will have for him "later".

The one-eyed dark man glares at him, but before he can say a word—

"Ask your Captain. I think you will find he has all the information I'm willing to offer at the moment." Loki smiles. Somehow it feels tired. Suddenly he wishes, just for a second, that he was back in Asgard.

* * *

"Steve," Natasha says the second they're out of the guards' earshot. "Did Loki tell you anything?"

The urgency in her tone is startling. "Why?"

She pauses before answering. "Fury's going to want to know everything as soon as possible, but...well, given your current condition, I wouldn't advise it."

"My current condition?" Steve asks dumbly before trying to change the subject. "And, yes, Loki did give me some information, like..."

He briefly recites what he knows. That Pepper is with Doom. That he's planning to do something with the Avengers—why else would Loki avoid the question so obviously. He doesn't quite understand the implications, but he remembers the details and recites them with detached ease.

Natasha nods, but doesn't look satisfied. "Steve..."

"Is that enough? I know Fury's going to want me to write up something formal, but right now I'd really like to take a rest." He's rambling and he knows it. But he's so tired, too tired to keep up this act. Lying is exhausting.

Natasha gives him a searching look. "Don't bother pretending. I know more types of torture than you could dream of, Captain. I know what rape looks like."

Steve, head spinning, takes a deep breath. Natasha is just concerned for him, that he knows; but he can't help feeling trapped by her words, her stifling worry because he doesn't even feel worried as much as he feels tired. And that fact itself should be worrying.

"I'm okay," he says. "Really, it's fine. Super serum and all that." He's surprised that these words come easier.  _Is lying coming easier or am I actually okay?_

She only looks more alarmed—alarmed in the very subtle way a spy shows emotion. "At least have Bruce—"

"Natasha, I'm  _fine_ ," he repeats. "I just need to sort some things out. Please."

She gives him a hard, unyielding look—then steps back. "Okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, considerably startled. "I'll see you."

It's only after her red ponytail has disappeared around the corner that he fully allows himself to breathe. His legs feel very unsteady underneath him, shaky, and the exhaustion he's been trying desperately to ignore is worse than ever. How long has it been since he slept?

The hallway seems terribly long and he takes the walk slowly. He knows that it's very possible, probable, even, that there are cameras down this hallway. There are probably some in his room too, if he's to be perfectly honest with himself.

But he doesn't know anywhere better than his room at the moment. Or closer—just a few more hallways, a few more long, dark, metal corridors. His footsteps echo only the tiniest bit but each one is still far too loud in his ears.

* * *

Steve is lying half curled on the bed after a short shower when the door clicks open. Of course, it's Tony who's standing there, looking annoyingly smug and grinning vindictively. Holding what looks like a credit card in one hand and a small wire in the other, as if that explains everything.

" _What_ ," Steve says, exasperated. Realizing his tone, he sighs and rubs the sleep from his eyes. "I'm really sorry, it's just…"

"So you  _can_ be rude to people," Tony says with a look of shock plastered over his features and the credit card (Steve can make out the letter on the side) thrown dramatically over his heart. "Good  _Lord,_ what is America going to do if their golden boy is forgetting his manners?"

Steve would like nothing more to point out the hypocrisy of that statement but considering his own colossal mistakes he settles for falling back on an old habit: blind courtesy.

"Sorry, was there something I could help you with?"

"Save your apologies, Van Gogh. And yes, there was something I needed to talk to you about." Tony sounds so abruptly serious that Steve is struck speechless for one awkward moment.

"Which is…?"

Tony glances around the room suspiciously. "I think we should go somewhere more private."

Steve looks at him askance. "It's  _my_  room—and, Stark, it's been a long day," he says with a fake yawn that quickly morphs into a real one.

" _Rogers,_ do I look like I care? Great, that's what I thought," says Tony. "Let me just say this." He lowers his voice. "Loki? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What?" The feeling inside of Steve is not fear. No, it's cold, cold dread.  _I should have known this was coming._ His head is ringing.  _I deserve this._

"Now you get why I said private?" Tony mutters. In a louder tone, he continues. "You better explain this pretty damn well. But we're doing this at Stark—well, wherever they keep the alcohol on this fucking thing. I have the feeling my liver's going to be in for a rough night."


	13. Chapter 13

Loki is silently ruminating on the method by which he should redo the Captain's scars—having decided that thinking about escape is too boring and too  _easy_ —when Fury comes to visit him, steel-toed black boots clicking against the floor.

Briefly, Loki thinks about how Fury is, all trench coats, boots, and sunglasses. Showy, in his own way.  _Leaders: they're all the same. Even across worlds._

"I'm here to give you one last chance," says the man in a deceivingly calm voice when the clicking of his boots has ceased and he's seated in the small chair across the black table. "You can tell us about Doom, or at least start to—or we're sending you back to Asgard as soon as possible, with Thor, to a prison we've heard has been much improved."

The falsehood hanging heavy in the air between them, Loki says nothing. The silence is oppressive. Loki's sure even the dispassionate Director can't stand it for long.

Fury is too professional to show anger openly—his mouth doesn't tighten, and his glare doesn't exceed its normal heat. But the lack of obvious expression on his face speaks volumes in its own right.

Loki wonders, vaguely, if it's because of what he's done to the Captain or from a cold sense of duty.

"Well," the Director says without emotion. "I hope Asgard can keep a better hold on you this time." Loki restrains a smile. Even Fury is exasperated with Odin at this point. And Fury knows—oh, he knows, whether he likes it or not—that nobody can really keep a hold on Loki for long.

The chair squeaks dully as Fury pushes it back. Loki watches him leave with impassive eyes. He's almost completely sure Fury won't actually send him off to Asgard, not so quickly—not when he's important enough to warrant such lenient treatment even after  _playing_ with their dear Captain.

* * *

After a few minutes of wandering the hallways with Steve following aimlessly behind, Tony stops and snaps his fingers. "I nearly forgot about that!" he says aloud.

"Hm?" asks Steve, whose mind is undergoing short vicissitudes of panic.

"You'll see. Thank you, younger Tony Stark," says Tony and lopes off at a marginally quicker pace. Bemused, Steve trails after him.

In maybe ten minutes (not counting the time it took to duck out of the way of an approaching, heavy-footed Fury), Tony stops in front of what looks like a small closet door. Steve eyes it with some trepidation.

"What  _is_ this?" Steve asks apprehensively, nudging the small door with his foot.

"First aid supply closet," Tony says in a brisk tone, ducking inside. "Used to be bugged. It's unimportant enough that Fury hasn't checked up on it in ages. Funny, you'd think he'd be more careful. It's him that's at risk of a heart attack, really."

Tony replaces a defibrillator with his bottle and sits beside it. Narrowly avoiding slamming his head into the doorway, Steve follows him. "So….how did you know?" It seems the most natural place to start, but he still feels all sorts of uncomfortable addressing the situation. The fact that he's too big for the closet doesn't help.

"I was…taking readings on Loki," says Tony, luckily understanding what Steve is trying to get at. "So what—"

"Readings on Loki? What?" interjects Steve.

"Well, genius, I think it'd be a good idea to make a cell that actually holds the bastard—oh, wait, should I call him your lover now? Or are you two not official yet?"

Steve thinks about whether responding to those questions would be worth it or whether it'd be better just to count to ten and think. He compromises by counting to five.

"How does that explain you putting a…camera or micro—" Steve ponders the word briefly before giving up—"micro-thing in his cell?"

"Microphone, and do you really think I trust Fury's tech? More to the point, I might be able to see something Fury doesn't—for all we know, Reindeer Games can communicate with Doom using his magic. I can set my babies on analyzing his every move. Tell me that's not important." Tony tapped the rim of his glass against the wall as if to emphasize his point.

Steve doesn't respond. Instead, he sits on the floor—or tries to, anyway—struggling to fold his knees in the small space. It's rare times like this that he wishes for his old body. But it never lasts long.

"So many jokes I could make," says Tony, noticing his discomfort. "About you and this closet."

"What?"

"Never mind. Huh. You and Loki," says Tony.

"It's not what you think, really," Steve says, realizing he hasn't actually denied any relationship with the god. "It's just—well—"

"Abusive? No—wait, non-consensual." Waving one finger like he knows what he's talking about, Tony drinks straight from the bottle. "Jesus. Not like I would have expected less."

"Is there a diff—never mind." He tucks his legs up against his chest. "It's nothing."

"He obviously doesn't think it's some little fling. Those were some pretty serious scars."

Steve bangs his elbow against the wall. "What?"

"I saw them that night we brought in Loki. On your back. Permanent dog tag." Tony laughs. "That was a pretty good joke, Cap, you gotta admit. In so many ways. I mean, first, you have the big P-E-T on yo—"

"Tony."

It's as if he hadn't said anything. "Then, the fact you're a super soldier and all—"

"Tony. It's nothing. He just likes…playing with me. It's better if it stays this way, really," says Steve. "I did manage to get some information out of him, after all."

"Yeah, you didn't sound too guilty while doing it either." Some of Tony's drink has spilled on the floor and Steve watches the liquid roll over the gray stone silently.

"You've really got yourself into quite a mess, haven't you," Tony says, in a tone tinged with irony. "America's golden boy, fucking one of the most wanted criminals. Super serum enhanced body and he's using it to have some rough sex with an alien god. It's pretty funny, actually."

Steve glares at him, but it's hard to muster up any venom. There's nothing he can really say to refute the billionaire. Non-consensual or not, he didn't loathe every second of it and Tony knows that. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"At the moment? I'm going to drink myself to oblivion and back."

A little surge of guilt. "Tony…it's not as if it's your fault."

"Oh, Captain, my Captain," says Tony in a singsong voice. "Of course it's not. I just like to drink, that's all. I don't care who you're fucking as long as it doesn't affect my life—oh, wait. I guess I just meant I don't care."

"So you're not going to tell?" Steve blurts out. "But I should tell them myself…"

Snorting, Tony takes another drink. "Oh please," he says, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "By all means, keep him around. Just don't expect me to a, start liking him, b, stop running tests or monitoring him. Or, c, don't expect me not to try and get him in a good Stark prison as soon as possible."

"Stark prison," Steve says with raised eyebrows.

"New development. Very new. You'll love it. Although there aren't any visiting hours for significant others, so you might not like it  _too_  much."

"Ha, ha," mutters Steve. It's one of the rare times sarcasm makes sense to him.

* * *

After forcefully walking a drunk, incoherent—really, he was mumbling something about closets and coming out by the time Steve left him—to his room, Steve finds his way back to his own room. It's as much as he can do not to break out in (pathetic) paroxysms of guilt before he gets there, before he has the safety of his room to break down in.

Well, if not break down in so dramatic a fashion as the term implies…at least to collapse and think. He doesn't know how long it'll be before Fury—or Natasha, or whoever—comes to debrief him, to interrogate, to prod and poke at his healing wounds.

He needs time to—if nothing else—to get his story straight. To reconcile his guilt with his pragmatic idea of the greater good. To figure out where he stands in right and wrong.

So that's why when he opens his door to see Loki standing in the middle of the room, he can't muster up the energy to yell or question. But he also can't push away his conscience completely and give in to the icy burning heat that is wholly Loki.

Steve walks past the god and sits on his bed. Too late, he realizes it could be mistaken for a suggestive gesture but he's too worn out to stand up again so he stays. The god moves towards him, possessively, violently, suddenly in his peripheral vision—

"Loki—don't. Just…don't," says Steve and something vulnerable breaks through the last word. A little break in his speech. He tries to cover it up with a cough, but that only makes it worse. He feels trapped, smothered, claustrophobic.

Steve covers his face with his hands. Oddly, that seems to help.

A weight drops onto the bed beside him. "Are you…"

Loki sounds so unsure, so hesitant—like he's never had to act (because that's what it is, isn't it, acting) concerned about someone else before—that Steve almost wants to laugh. Instead, he just uncovers his face. "I'm fine. Just please go."

Loki looks at him, face blank.

" _Go._ I'm not playing any of your damn games. Not now, not ever again." He's almost yelling, but he's beyond caring.  _Why won't he just go? What does he have to gain?_

 _I've already messed everything up. Tony, Fury—even Thor._ He's not sure what specifically he's done. But thinking of them is enough to spark enough emotion inside of him that there must be something.  _Maybe without me, things wouldn't be like this now._

And maybe he knows, logically, that can't be all true. But that part of him is buried somewhere deep inside of him—pushed away by his emotions, by his guilt, by Loki himself.

"Steve," says Loki with a hint of what might be concern in his voice. He looks….confused. Like he might actually, for once in his life, not know what to do, what to say.

Somehow, that sends Steve over the edge.

"Can't you do one thing? You're the last person I want to see—no, wait, you're not a person. You're just a jealous god with a goddamned inferiority complex who never got over the fact he was adopted."

Silence. Steve knows that he's gone too far, and suddenly his anger is gone and in its place is a feeling that's even worse.

He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm taking it out on you."

_I'm mad at myself. I hate myself. I'm a liar, and a fake, and the only thing I do is hurt. No matter what I do._

"Don't apologize when it's not your fault," Loki says in a whisper that's closer to lethal than gentle from beside him. He stands. Steve opens his eyes, feeling the absence of his weight keenly.

"Loki—" starts Steve, not sure what he's going to say but only knowing somehow that he's messed this up too, he's hurt someone else—

But Loki is gone before Steve has the chance to even finish his name.


	14. Chapter 14

In fact, it isn't Fury who comes for Steve next—it's Clint and he sounds almost as humorless as Steve feels.

"Get down to the bridge, Cap," he says through the door. "Natasha wants you."

Steve picks himself up off the floor, where's he's been doing pushups for God knows how long and wipes his forehead. "Okay. I'll be right there."

Ten minutes pass and he's on his way, almost at a run but not quite, eager to be doing something even useful. Honestly, at this point he'd be happy running coffee (he thinks that's the phrase) for Tony.

Well, maybe not, but he  _needs_ to get his mind off of everything: the threat of Doom, their current flight to Wakanda (Lord, he'd almost forgotten the whole point of being on the Helicarrier on the first place), and most of all, Loki.

Loki, the enigmatic Asgardian with his talk about "breaking" Steve…and who made him feel like he wanted to be broken.

Steve almost snorts aloud.  _Pathetic._ That's what thoughts like that are.  _I'm weak, too weak, and it hurts everyone. Even Loki._

Somehow he doesn't especially blame Loki—well, he supposes that's part of being a good soldier. Focus on the task at hand. If everyone sits around and thinks about how it isn't their fault, nothing happens.

But Loki's absolution in his mind is really more than that, isn't it? He doesn't blame Loki, the one person he can and probably should blame. After all, Steve was the one to yell, to mock Loki's past when his is hardly spotless. In that respect, yes, Loki is not at fault.

Steve turns a corner, one hallway away from the bridge. He doesn't have time for figuring out blame. He's a soldier, albeit one not as good as he should be, but still a soldier—stuck in a very muddled war.

Well, the most important thing in a war is the enemy: Loki. It has to be him, doesn't it? Doom is only an add-on, a human tool (isn't that how Loki sees humans? The thought stings for some reason).

One day long ago, it started with Loki. Somewhere in that fuzzy time before now.

Now. Now, when lines blur and Steve wavers on the edge of a pit of self doubt so deep he can't see the bottom, now, when he doesn't know which way is up.

 _Now._ He has to think about now.  _I have to do something. I have to help._

* * *

The bridge is no more crowded than usual, but somewhat louder. Nobody's shouting, no, it's not that. It's a collective noise, an impressive panoply of whispers and murmurs and hisses that speak of urgency. Steve realizes that something is very wrong.

Seeing Natasha's red ponytail, he makes his way through the sea of consoles to her. He tries to ignore the stares he's getting, because—even out of uniform—Captain America is distinguishable and far too famous for his own good.

_But is that all it is? Did they hear about…did Tony tell them…?_

_Enough._

He catches sight of a familiar face—Agent Hill—at one of the main consoles looking at some sort of map.

"Something wrong with the Helicarrier?" asks Steve as he approaches, taking a shot in the dark.

"Actually, Captain, we're ahead of schedule. That's the problem," Agent Hill mutters by way of response.

Standing there at the control panel next to Tony, Natasha looks impossibly grim. She sees Steve. Her expression doesn't change.

"Captain," she calls, businesslike. "Fury wants you to get checked out. Banner is waiting at medical bay. His orders, not mine." Steve knows she means Fury, not like she technically gives orders anyway.

Tony, beside her with his hands flying across the screens, doesn't look at Steve. He doesn't even seem drunk anymore—he looks utterly in his element, there, surrounded by computers and machinery whose function Steve cannot even guess at.

Ignoring Natasha, Steve makes his way over to them. "I'm fine. What's happening?"

"Go and let Banner check you, Captain," Natasha snaps without meeting his eyes. She leans over Tony. "Stark, what are you doing?"

"Saving your pretty little ass, Red," mumbles Tony but without any of his usual verve. Natasha pinches some nerve at the back of his neck and Tony flinches, hands splayed over the console. "I'm just trying to figure out what he's hiding, dammit!"

"Doom?" Steve asks to no avail. He's about to take the spare seat next to Natasha when she turns on him.

"Go. To. Bruce," she says in a perfectly level tone. "We need you able."

Steve wants to protest, but the deadly glare she's leveling on him halts any words he might have had. "Fine," he says, forcing the word out.  _I need to do something, anything._ He catches sight of Fury in the conference room above the bridge and begins to make his way towards the elevator.

Of course, Natasha isn't going to let him get away that easily so he ends up being half-dragged to the door of the medical bay. "We have a situation with the Black Panther. Clint is telling Thor and I'm helping Tony. Not so much helping as babysitting and I don't need to do the same for you, so just let Bruce check you over."

Nodding, he makes as if to enter the door. She's not done. "Room 5M, he said. One of the multi-purpose operating rooms." Natasha gives him a gentle (for her) shove towards the door. "We need you back soon so just get this done with."

"See you later," he says, a little resentfully, with a strained smile afterward to soften his tone.

* * *

In Room 5M, Steve discovers that apparently superheroes have their own medical charts. It's not even the first time he's had a checkup since he came to the 21st century, not even the first time in this particular room.

So when he sees Bruce filling out an electronic form, he's surprised. "What's that?"

"An extremely important medical form," says Bruce, raising his eyebrows in a way which reminds Steve of a less exaggerated Tony.

"Do we always have them filled out?"

"To some extent. This is a special one, technically, considering the situation."

"Oh," says Steve uncomfortably, shifting on the cold operating table. "They have forms for that?" He is rankled by the idea, somehow.

"Yes, 'they' do. Not the first time it's happened." Bruce's voice softens marginally. "Things are a lot more open now, Captain. This stuff isn't overlooked."

Steve isn't quite sure what the man is saying but dislikes the implications. "Oh. I see."

"Yes. I'd hope that you do."

Steve cocks an eyebrow. He's not sure whether Bruce is deliberately being cryptic—in that dark, measured way he doles out his words—or if it's another phrase he just hasn't heard before. Either way, he prefers not to ask.

"Is it difficult?" Steve asks with some exasperation, a myriad of probing questions (accompanied with some physical contact which is equally uncomfortable for both of them) later.

"Is what difficult?" Bruce pulls his gloves off finger by finger

"Working as a doctor," says Steve, realizing a little late that maybe redirecting his minor annoyance onto Bruce is not a good idea. Bruce's gloves swish into the trash bin. "Never mind. Forget it." He studies a squared pattern on the floor.

"It's okay." Bruce's tone suggests it's not. "You can acknowledge that it exists, you know. It happened a long time ago. The Hulk is who he is."

"Time doesn't mean it gets better," says Steve without looking up.

He can feel Bruce's shrewd gaze on him. "I suppose you'd think that."

Shrugging, Steve meets Bruce's eyes. He's surprised, pleasantly so, at the lack of pity. Somehow, that frees his tongue. "So then it isn't hard seeing people hurt and not being able to do anything about it?"

Something in Bruce's face shuts down. He crosses the room in short steps.

"Do you expect me to say it's easy?" Bruce pauses, hands splayed over the white countertop. "You of all people would know that."

That stings. They're certainly not talking about doctors any more.

"But if you're talking about most patients, well, no, it's not hard. I have to have a more intimate  _emotional_ attachment to them—no offense intended, Captain, but our little checkup is not what I mean by intimate," says Bruce, voice carefully bland, typing something a little jerkily into a thin desktop computer.

Steve winces and sits up, his spine making faint popping noises. He still gets a bit worried when that happens. It sounds like something is breaking inside of him and, way back pre-surgery, that was something to fear.

"Am I done then…Dr. Banner?"

"Yeah, go on, Natasha will have my head if I don't release her Captain soon," says Bruce, his voice returning to its normal dry tone. "She knows where to find me if she needs me."

Steve nods. "Thank you." He tries not to walk too quickly as he leaves.

* * *

En route to the bridge, Steve hears a tremendous bellow and turns to see Thor striding down the hallway, Mjolnir in hand. " _Loki!_ " he bellows.

Taking the few steps between them at a sprint, Steve blocks the god. "What are you doing?" Thor tries to shove him aside and Steve nearly trips into the wall. "Wait a second, Thor.  _Thor_."

"I will not  _wait._ I have waited long enough. Loki has caused enormous damage to your people and I deeply apologize for his actions." Thor pauses as if preparing to unleash a stream of invective, nostrils flaring. "But I cannot allow him to remain here any longer."

A few footsteps in the distance. Clint jogs out from behind the great mass who is Thor, panting.

"He doesn't know about…that," he mouths, gesticulating a little wildly at Steve before tugging at Thor's bicep. "We need Loki," he says pleadingly. "Thor, he already told Steve some information and he could always say more."

Steve narrows his eyes. For Clint to be in favor of keeping Loki around…well, he makes a mental note to ask Natasha how Clint is holding up later.

"And you are in favor of this?" Thor rumbles, glaring at Steve.

"We need him." Steve feels as if his throat is constricting but he forces the words out. If Thor found out, well, he doesn't know what the god would do. It certainly wouldn't be good. "We need to keep him here, at least for a little while longer. And no offense intended, Thor, but this might be a better place to keep him until the Allfather is prepared. Remember what happened last time."

Thor looks equal measures hurt and thoughtful. "So you suggest I tell the Allfather?"

 _Damn it._ But really, isn't this what he wants? To send Loki back where he belongs, hopefully a prison which will be better prepared to handle him this time? Steve hesitates. "But we still need him now…?"

Clint takes over. "Thor, the prison is fine. I think Tony has some ideas on how to fix it up even better now. You can trust him." Thor sends a questioning look towards Steve.

As far as Steve knows, Tony's ideas are purely theoretical at the moment. But he wants to believe that Clint's right, so he nods. Thor's death grip on Mjolnir slackens visibly.

"I will give you more time," the god announces. "But I will alert the Allfather as soon as possible."

" _Great,_ uh—I mean, okay," amends Clint hurriedly. "Tell him to take his time, will you? Now you can go on to the conference room and tell Fury. We'll meet you there."

Thor nods, unquestioning. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. "I am sure he too will see the logic behind waiting a little while."

Making a vaguely agreeable noise, Clint shoos him off. "Go on. We're supposed to have a meeting anyway."

"How…much does Thor know?" asks Steve when Thor is out of earshot, a little scared of the answer. Clint sighs, a strangled puff of air, as if the weight of the world has just dropped onto his shoulders.

"Not much. Just that Loki destroyed Fury's machinery and trapped you with him, but he gave you some information. Thor's under the impression that Loki used some sort of 'torture magic' on you against your will, which isn't really a lie." Clint sketches out a few phrases with skeptical air quotes and makes a face.

Steve feels a familiar twinge of guilt. "What's this about the Black Panther?"

"You don't know yet?"

"What happened?"

"He sent us a message. Basically told us to go away. Tony's trying to scan the base, or something like that. Not sure what he's looking for," Clint says as they begin to walk. "But we'll find out."

The unspoken words "from Loki" hang between them.

"I hope so," Steve says and walks a little faster.


	15. Chapter 15

Fury is last to arrive to the conference room, long coat giving him an impressively solemn presence. Tony comes in directly after him. Silently, mouth pressed in a hard line, he takes a seat next to Bruce.

The already minimal chatter around the conference table ceases. All eyes go to the Director, who is looking out through the glass window to the bridge. He turns, abruptly, at the silence.

"We're above Wakanda now. A day ahead of schedule, for those of you that were wondering," starts Fury. Nobody looks like they are, or were, wondering. "We contacted the Black Panther, who immediately sent us a message telling us under no circumstances to come down." He clears his throat. "Stark?"

"Since this is obviously a suspicious message to send, I've been scanning the area, using several different frequency scanners," Tony begins. Steve tries his best not to zone out. "In other words, I've scanned for several different suspect substances I found in the Doombots."

"And found?" demands Fury.

A long silence.

"Dirt, vibranium, nothing like the uranium or even the trace amounts of cesium in the Doo—well, basically, nothing."

Another long silence.

"Well, then," says Bruce finally. "That was a waste of time."

"I get no appreciation around here," Tony mutters, arms crossed and a disgruntled look on his face. "Really, I did  _all_  that and all you can say is 'that was a waste of time'?"

"Well," Steve says as nobody else says anything. "Thank you. So then—"

"See, someone appreciates me," Tony says to Bruce, who shrugs.

" _So then_ ," continues Steve. "Why won't he let us down? What is he hiding?"

"Drugs," says Tony flippantly. "A new iteration of crystal meth, if I'm not mistaken. Very potent."

"Stark," starts Fury, brows drawn together.

"No, I'm completely serious. I didn't just scan for the Doombot material. I went through your database of banned substances—"

"That's a secure—"

"That's cute. I did my best to check for most of them, and what do you know. Our friend is cooking some serious stuff down there. Not quite the same as what you have documented, but I took the liberty of making a new entry."

Natasha looks like she wants to kill something. In fact, everyone around the table has a similar expression. Bruce with a look of intense concentration, Tony with his words more scathing than facetious—even Thor has a crease in his forehead so deep it looks permanent.

The conference table is an expensive looking construction of glass and metal, all cold edges and sharp corners. Pushing back from the table, Steve puts his hands on the edge and grounds himself.

He focuses on not crushing the metal under his fingers.  _Maybe this is how Bruce feels all the time._

Fury sighs heavily. "So we have nothing. That's what you're saying?"

"Well, not necessarily," Clint says. "I mean, the Black Panther could still be a supplier. Of vibranium," he adds at Tony's raised eyebrow.

"I doubt he'd have any reason to. He has enough money, more than anyone would need," says Natasha. "But there's always something. If I could get in and have a little talk with him…"

"Can we not just…attack the place?" says Thor, fingers on Mjolnir.

"This 'place' has enough vibranium that we'd be more likely to starve before we penetrated it," Tony says. The seriousness of the situation is obvious in his completely straight-faced use of the word "penetrate". "I can't understand how Doom did it,  _if_  he did it. Even Red over here couldn't do it."

Pursing her lips, Natasha stares at the table but doesn't protest. Steve scans the table, reading the frustration, the anger, the exhaustion in all of their faces.

All except…Clint. Clint, for better or worse, is evidently deep in thought—his brow is furrowed and lips tightly pressed together in the way that can only mean he's thinking about Loki.

Steve's not sure why he's so certain, but he breaks the silence anyway. "So we only have one option."

Another uneasy pause. Tony's eyes dart back and forth, between Steve and Clint, missing nothing. Fury leans back, which, for him, signals cautious curiosity. Bruce steeples his fingers and narrows his eyes at Steve.

Clint's words are hollow and haunted by futility:

"We need to talk to Loki."

* * *

A momentary weakness.

The Captain left alone, an apology, a myriad of memories Loki does not want to think about but has for too long. Loki curses the man and his own treasonous instinct—oh, hasn't he learned not to trust anyone, even himself, by now.

He didn't hesitate before. He forced the captain with no qualms—even with pleasure. He forced through the tears, through the shock—because he was and is  _Loki._ Steve Rogers, the Captain, for all his serum-induced strength is a Midgardian, weak, changeable, and somehow bringing out the mortality in Loki himself.

Never again.

He isn't sure what he is swearing off of. Or even if he is making a promise at all. But there is something wrong, some deficit, some  _weakness_ inside of him, and he has to get rid of it.

On one hand, he is glad he left. Glad he didn't witness Captain America's breakdown in the cramped bedroom. Glad for reasons that go from disgust (probably) to, well… _it's inconsequential._ He left, and that is that. A physical manifestation of weakness for sure.

Loki hates how he left the Captain alone. When he was so close to snapping. When a few more touches, a few more unflinching words would have  _ended_ him. That's been the objective from the beginning, hasn't it? From the first time?

It's a game of extremes, of pulling Captain America apart and by definition tearing apart the Avengers as well. But somewhere along the line, breaking changed to breaking  _in_. He's left pieces of himself, shards of possessiveness and want and maybe borderline obsession.

 _No._  Not want, not obsession. No more than the simple fascination one feels towards a new toy. That's it. That has to be it. He can't afford for it to be any more.

Loki's only regret is not finishing the job—not breaking irrevocably what he had once he was done.

That must be it—well, he knows that isn't true, not completely. There's something else there, something else he lumps under the poison label of "sentiment" and needs to be rid of.

He will bring an end to this whole situation—throw away what he has broken, throw away the pieces of himself that have been broken along with it, throw away any maudlin regrets or tacit promises or uncouth emotions that have no place in his head.

* * *

"Go get something to eat. All of you." Fury breaks the silence and while it's clear none of them want to leave, not when they've figured out so much—it feels like a marathon, a battle, what they've just gone through—Steve knows arguing is pointless.

He lets the others file out before trailing after them himself.

"Captain," says Fury quietly from the head of the table, a second before he reaches the door. Steve turns, clasping his hands in front of him and with the sneaking suspicion that he knows what Fury is going to say.

"You know what you'll need to do." And Fury sounds weary, worn-out, done for. Steve supposes that on some level they all are.

"If I do…" Steve isn't sure how to respond.

" _When_ you do. We're out of options, Captain." Fury pushes his chair back from the table and walks past him with long sweeping steps. The room seems too quiet without the other Avengers. Holding the door open, Fury pauses to look back at him for a split second. "I'm sorry."

What does he say?  _No problem, I don't mind being whored out to Loki—happens a lot these days._ Or maybe he should explain.  _Oh, I yelled at him for no reason so now he probably hates me as much as he hates everyone._

Or even… _Don't apologize if it's my fault?_

There's no good answer, but it doesn't matter because Fury is already gone.

* * *

Asgard. Loki wonders briefly what is happening there—what Odin is doing with his favorite and only son stuck on Midgard chasing after a smart Midgardian and a puny Jotun.

 _I must be truly desperate._ Because Asgard is usually a topic he avoids even thinking about. Anger; good in small doses. But in combination with resentment and perhaps a trace of bitterness, it is most definitely a hindrance.

Asgard is a veritable  _well_  of emotions—his lip curls at the thought—that is normally like an open wound for him. Fascinating, despite everything, to poke at and think about, and wonder what if.

And now, well, right now there's something else entirely weighing on his mind.

Someone else he can't seem to get out of his head, but not in a good way (is there a good way?). In a way that makes him clench his fists—yet he really doesn't know why. He's not angry, not exactly, not like that but there's some emotion curled up inside of him that  _hurts_ when he tries to think about it.

Something he doesn't want to think about. Something that has to do with the Captain. He doesn't know what but it feels uncomfortably close to weakness.

There's only one way to get rid of these nagging thoughts. Only one way to make sure they're gone and not coming back.

* * *

When they reconvene post-lunch break, Steve hears the others' protests as if they are bees. He knows what Fury intends him to do. He knows what will, inevitably, happen—because when the Director wills it, he's bound to follow.

Strangely enough, Bruce is the most ardent in his defense—the most against him talking to Loki, and 'getting some information out of him'—Natasha's delicate way of putting it.

"You're not possibly suggesting…" Bruce begins, but the look on Fury's face, just a step behind pitying, answers the question for him. "No. That's not—"

"What do you suggest we do?" says Fury flatly. "What other option do we have?"

"You don't even know if he's offering the same...deal," argues Bruce. "He could have just been bored. Maybe now his curiosity is sated."

Despite feeling as if not enough blood is going to his head, Steve shakes his head. "Fury's right. I have to do it. It's the closest thing we have to a plan."

* * *

Loki hears the hiss of the doors sliding open and opens his eyes at the same moment, but doesn't move. He keeps his gaze trained on the table, the interrogation table, he supposes it's called.

The nerves in the pit of his stomach at the sight surprises him. There's a frenetic energy, a short-lived burst of some emotion he's too busy—plotting out how to accomplish his aim, the removal of the bundle of complications called Captain America—to identify.

Footsteps. Loki refuses to look up, then realizes how obvious that makes it that the Captain's presence bothers him— _except it doesn't_ —so he glances at Steve and looks away with feigned disinterest.

He feels, rather than sees, Steve's weight drop into the seat across the table. "Loki," the man says, a little plaintively, a little apologetic.

Loki realizes, suddenly, what the feeling that nags at him every time he thinks about Steve is. It's—hot, icy, some combination of the two— _fear._

Steve clears his throat, all business. "Loki." The fear in the pit of Loki's stomach lessens a little, because this, this he can deal with. A Midgardian doing his job. Not one breaking down in front of him, exposing some raw piece of himself that  _Loki_ —out of all people—has never done anything to deserve.

Oh, but Loki  _is_  afraid, his heart is pounding too fast to deny that. He is afraid of his own irrational fear—fear of what he's gotten himself into. He takes a deep breath. He is Loki. A god. He has been afraid before. Steve is only another obstacle to be rid of.

* * *

The god takes a deep breath and Steve shivers, instinctively, wondering what Loki will say and maybe what he will do.

"Tell me how," says Loki. His green eyes light up with a painful intensity and he shifts forward. " _How_ can you bear to get up—to pretend at your façade of leadership even after you've been brought to your knees."

Steve opens his mouth, surprised, but Loki's not done. "No, don't deny it, Captain. You're pretending at greatness when you're not half as pure as you like to seem."

He leans forward even farther, lips almost brushing Steve's ear. Steve tries desperately to ignore his heart's stuttering palpitations—trying to run away but with no idea of where to go.  _Am I shaking?_ He can't tell.

Loki breathes into his ear—the one without the earpiece, for better or worse—and exhales a few soft words. "You're just a pet, nothing more."

" _A_ pet?" Steve knows he should pull away as soon as he says those words, salvage what's left of his dignity—but somehow he can't make himself do it.

Loki laughs huskily. "Well, my pet…if it pleases you so much."

" _No_ —no, that's not what I meant," Steve snaps in a blind panic, drawing back. But it's too late, the damage is done, and now Loki is smirking at him in a very knowing way.

"Fickle, aren't we." Loki reaches one pale hand forward and plucks the earpiece from his ear, tugging a little to fully dislodge it. He places it on the table between them like a bargaining chip. "Well then…let's talk, my little hypocrite."

"Fury thinks I don't have any information, that I know nothing," says Loki matter-of-factly. He leans his head on his hand, elbows on the table, the very image of avuncular concern. "Well, I can say that at the very least I have information that will be of some use to you and your people."

"And how do you know that?"

"You did say you were going to Wakanda, correct?" Loki pauses.

"Yes, in order to check for a source of vibranium," says Steve. He hears a tiny thud from the earpiece that could very well be Fury's head hitting his hands. Loki's eyes flick to it.

"Hm. I can tell you that he has his own source of vibranium. Latveria, I think that's the name for it?" Loki is speaking clearly, enunciating every word precisely, eyes set on the earpiece.

Steve's head is spinning with the implications of that— _they've been looking in the wrong place this entire time—_

Loki interrupts his thoughts, not an uncommon occurrence. "Now then. I've paid you. Isn't it your turn?"

"Wha—"

"Oh, don't pretend to be duller than you already are. This is why your beloved Director sent you in and you know it. A pretty little lamb to sacrifice to the big scary god." Loki's lip curls briefly.

"I'll tell him he got the big part wrong, then," says Steve without thinking. Loki gives him a scathing, don't-be-so-dense look. His eyes return to the earpiece. He reaches out and crushes it between his fingers.

Then he stands. He turns his back to Steve, hands in front of him. When he turns back, he is holding a knife, long and gleaming and too thin to be Earth-made. Steve tenses but doesn't move.

"This is my favorite dagger from Asgard," muses Loki, eyes unfocused. He runs his finger over the edge. Then his gaze and tone sharpens. "Do you trust me?"

 _What?_ Steve doesn't know how to answer but Loki seems to take his silence as an answer itself.

"Then kiss it," Loki says in a quiet voice, probing, testing, always testing him.

The blade opens a small cut on his lip—bringing with it a sharp stinging pain and a bead of hot blood. Steve moves to lick the blood off, out of some perverse instinct. Dragging one finger over his lips, Loki stops him.

There's more blood than Steve would have thought and the pressure of touch only intensifies the bleeding. Loki's fingers glint in the light and Steve struggles to keep his eyes locked on Loki's as the god's hands lower to his neck.

Then he shivers. A spark of sensation through his nerves, an electric burst, a desperate need to be touched: it's all of those things and more.

Loki's fingers are tracing circles around his neck, drawing something with blood, and it doesn't matter what he's doing as long as it keeps feeling like this. Steve makes a small noise in his throat. He likes it, oddly enough, feeling the reverberations trapped between his throat and Loki's skin.

Loki's eyes flick to his with a sudden interest and Steve knows his disproportionate reaction to the touches is being duly noted.

"Amusing little thing you are, bikkja." Loki's fingers part from his neck and move lower. Stroking him gently through his pants with one hand, the other cups his face in a frighteningly intimate gesture.

Loki lets a pinky finger drop to rest directly on the front of his throat. Steve gives an appreciative little moan. "You like it even when I'm playing with your life. Your neck looks so pretty in red."

It takes a few moments for that to sink in through the hazy waves of pleasure. It takes a few moments more for him to realize that he doesn't really care.

He could die, but wasn't that the risk from the beginning? And now Loki's hands are solely occupied with his neck, slipping around it and pressing against the wet marks of his blood, and it suddenly seems far more important than the question of imminent death.

Loki speaks in a calm voice hovering on the brink of some precipice Steve can't see. "You should see what I've done. Drawn a line—a dotted one, if we're going to be particular—right around your throat. I could press down, hard, right here"—he taps the front of Steve's throat with his thumbs—"and you'd be dead."

"Or I could slit your neck with the knife. The one you kissed so willingly before, wouldn't that be ironic? It'd only take a little longer, I promise. Would you like that?"

Steve whimpers. His cock is aching so much it hurts, and not entirely in the good way.

Interpreting the sound correctly, Loki smiles. "No, that's not what  _you_ want, is it. Not you, my pet, my bikkja, my little toy." He pauses, a long pause, as if deciding something and in the back of his mind Steve wonders what it is—

Long fingers close around his neck and squeeze—squeeze dangerously hard. Steve coughs and splutters, a mistake as it turns out, pushing what feels like the last bit of air from his lungs.

It doesn't hurt, not yet, but he can feel panic rushing up inside of him. He pushes at Loki with his hands, desperately, futilely, not thinking.  _Like an asthma attack—_

"Do calm down, bikkja," murmurs Loki, and now Steve can feel that the pressure around his neck is more careful than brutal. The grip loosens a miniscule amount. Steve feels one nail scrape against the front of his throat and shudders, a full-body shiver. "Let me play with you a little before I kill you."

Steve feels, rather than sees, Loki step forward until they are pressed together. He can feel the god's eyes on him, feel—in a way too rough to be completely spontaneous—Loki's leg in between his.

And it feels good, the pain, the jagged edges of their contact, the way he's gasping and losing sight of anything but Loki. Although it doesn't make sense, death doesn't seem as close as it did before—with the knife—the dotted line wrapped round his neck like a how-to diagram—

It's hard to think. What is it that he was thinking before? He tries his best to figure out.

_Asthma?_

But it's not an asthma attack because, well, this is Loki—oh,  _God_ —

The grip around his neck tightens, again, but out of his peripheral vision Steve can see that Loki has actually let one hand  _drop._ Another sensation shoots through his body, and he tries his best to stay utterly still. Compliant.  _When did I…_

He really can't form a rational thought, not anymore. So instead he lets his arms drop, lets the struggle leave his body, and focuses on keeping his eyes on Loki's.

The pain intensifies in the best way possible. It hurts just to stay still, to hold back from struggling and using what remains in his lungs. It hurts to not grind against Loki; to hold himself back from getting the release he knows is within his reach and might kill him. It  _hurts_ to trust Loki with his life, hurts in a strangely  _perfect_  way—even when he knows it probably will be his death—

His vision goes black.


	16. Chapter 16

It's not really accurate to say his vision goes black; really, there's just  _nothing_  for what could be a second or an hour or a day.

Then all at once, the blackness or nothingness or whatever is gone and his vision snaps back. He's gasping, falling, and Loki catches him with one arm and props him up against the wall. Steve is in as much pain as he's ever felt and it seems to get worse with every second that passes, chest heaving, vision blurring—

 _Asthma,_ but it's not, it's not at all. Steve lets himself lean into Loki. He tries to breathe. The god feels tense beneath him, like he's not sure whether to push Steve away or wrap his hands around his neck again and this time push him over the edge. And not in the good way, whatever that means

Steve focuses on in and out, focuses on not toppling over, focuses on his blood thumping in his ears and the tightness in his chest, the gradual release as he can finally breathe again.

It could be a few minutes later, it could be a few seconds when he regains his breath enough to stand up on his own. He releases his grip on Loki's shirt, realizing what he was doing a little belatedly. The god's raised brow and slow blink speaks volumes.

"I'm sorry," Steve blurts, the first words out of his mouth. He doesn't mean to say them, exactly, but he can't deny that once they're out he feels immeasurably better. Loki snorts, a surprised laugh, but as close to genuine as Steve has ever heard from him.

"I would call it false guilt, but then I'd be lying," muses Loki, tasting every word before it leaves his mouth. "Whatever for, little pet?"

"The last time we met, uh." Steve feels sillier and sillier by the moment, which is utterly ridiculous considering the situation. Loki's crooked half smile, patronizing,  _oh-aren't-you-cute_ doesn't help the feeling. "I kinda yelled at you."

Loki does that little not-quite-laughing thing again. "You are quite possibly the most idiotic Midgardian I have had the dubious pleasure of knowing." He reaches out and curls one hand along the curve of Steve's cheekbone, not quite gentle but not rough either. "You know I have done far worse to you."

Steve shrugs, but carefully. He doesn't want to shift the god's hand, break this fragile peace that somehow—sometime—has formed between them like a bubble. And what Loki said is most pointedly not an apology; but it does make him feel, perversely enough, better.

Loki is watching him, green eyes intense and unwavering. "Do you plan on letting me out?" asks Steve, more for something to say than actual desire to leave this little place where he is not Captain America and Loki is not…well, Loki. It shouldn't feel so damned good, to escape his responsibilities, but it does.

"Feel…free, that is the phrase," says Loki. He slides his fingers down, cupping Steve's chin and looking at him appraisingly. "America, freedom, those mortal concepts?"

"What?" Steve wants to laugh. Loki lets go of him and takes a few steps back. "I don't think you know what America is."

"Oh, would you like to enlighten me?" says Loki, almost playfully. Steve smiles, hesitantly, and a cloud seems to pass over Loki's face. He breaks eye contact. "Why  _are_ you still here?"

Steve is taken aback. Loki continues. "You are free to leave. If you stay, the only thing I will do is hurt you more." He meets Steve's eyes again, green to blue, but his are suspicious now.

"If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already," says Steve bluntly. "So what do  _you_ want?" If Loki had wanted to kill him, he would've choked the life out of him, and, well, Steve would've let him do it.

Loki's eyes glitter with something unsaid lurking in their depths and he takes a few slow steps forward, until he is—once again—nearly touching Steve. "What do I want? I wa—"

There's only a faint  _hiss_ as a tocsin before the big metal doors slide open and Loki leaps back from Steve faster than humanly possible. It's almost funny to see how embarrassed the god looks for a split second, just before it fades into haughty irritation.

Clint stands in the doorway, looking rather sheepish. "For the record, it's Tony's fault, he made me come in, don't make me into a popsicle."

Loki makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a hiss and doesn't respond.

"Come on, Cap," says Clint impatiently. Steve sends one last look Loki's way, then hesitantly walks across to the door. His neck twinges a little and he pauses to rub it. Not that that helps any.

When he passes Loki, he murmurs "Sorry" under his breath, not more than a whisper, really. It's stupid. He's not sure why he's the one saying it, but it feels like a promise. He has the pleasure of seeing Loki's brow furrow—how many people can say they've confused a Norse god, not counting Thor since he is confused by everything and anything—before he is swept out into the corridor by a very edgy Clint.

The door hiss shut and Clint snorts in disbelief. "What happened in there? Tony told me it was 'safe to enter the lovers' den', but he was drunk and seemed to find the whole thing very funny. Mumbling about America."

Steve winces. "Someone should confiscate his alcohol." They start down the hall, going somewhere, Steve honestly doesn't know where. It's only then Clint notices his neck. His eyes go very wide.

"What's—you look like you've just been hanged."

"It heals quickly. It's worse than it looks," says Steve quickly, used to making the familiar reassurances.

"You should definitely see Bruce. I mean, Fury had him waiting on standby anyway, considering…well..." Clint trails off. "Okay, we'll go to Bruce first. Um, I mean you'll go. And I'll wait outside."

"Nothing like….that…happened," says Steve hurriedly with his face burning. "It's fine, really. Just some bruising. And, uh, blood."

Clint doesn't look very reassured. "The bastard—I mean Loki—better be gone soon. Thor messaged the Allfather using godly messaging powers—honestly, sometimes I think he has a cell phone or something and just does the whole yelling at the ceiling for Heimdall thing to mess with us—and hopefully he'll be out of our lives for longer than a few months this time."

They share a slightly bitter laugh. Clint stops in front of the door to the bridge, looks at him again, and clears his throat.

"You might want to get all that cleaned up first." There are already people giving Steve funny looks from inside— _Captain America bleeds?_  is something he's heard before, sadly—and while he would rather get to work as soon as possible even he realizes that the two minute detour is worth it.

"Okay. I'll be back."

Clint looks at him, just looks at him, like a passing stranger looks at someone homeless. Then he shakes his head. "You can take the day off, you know. You did your job."

"Have I?" says Steve, as much a question as it is a statement. "I appreciate it, but with all due respect I'd rather be involved. Even if it's running coffee for Tony or something."

Clint winces. "Be careful what you say, now. Stark would actually take you up on that."

"Oh, I know," says Steve, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "Don't tell him until things get really desperate, though. He doesn't need to know I'd consider running his errands for him."

Clint mimes zipping his lips shut. "Anything to keep his ego under control. My lips are sealed."

"Great." He pokes an especially deep bruise by accident. "Ow."

"Get yourself cleaned up," says Clint with a tone of no-nonsense finality. "Even Stark's coffee boy should look a little less like a murder victim."

* * *

When Steve returns, the Avengers plus Fury have already disappeared. He's forced to ask one of Hill's minions where they went—which, in addition to garnering unwanted attention, also delays him another fifteen minutes while signing autographs. Apparently, in Hill's absence he is a target for any fan within a fifty-foot radius.

Finally, once he can look up again, he realizes that the Avengers are gathered in the conference room overlooking the bridge. He can  _see_ Tony waving at him. So all of the Avengers have witnessed him uncomfortably talking to the minions and signing photos and being hugged (by one enthusiastic technician). Great.

"I see you've escaped from your fan club," observes Fury dryly once Steve flees a few minutes later. "But never mind that. Captain, I trust your judgment." Tony snorts and Fury pauses to glare at him. "Do you believe that Loki was telling the truth?"

"About the vibranium in Latveria?" Steve asks, knowing the answer.

"Yes," chimes in Agent Hill from beside Fury. "We have mixed responses."

"If it's true, why would he tell us?" says Natasha in her detached but somehow also long-suffering voice. She picks at her nail. "He could easily lead us in circles or get us killed attacking the Black Panther. Even if he's playing with us, like Stark and Banner seem to think."

Tony gives her a sarcastic nod. "Yes, as we  _seem_  to think, Loki likes to play games. He doesn't know enough about Earth to lie, or at least not one we would believe for long. He'd rather be selective about his truths—keep us guessing. How much does he know about vibranium?"

"Little to none, I'd bet," says Bruce, mostly addressing Steve. Fury rubs his eyes. "He can't run the risk of us calling his bluff. Or at least, he wouldn't want to. Getting caught is game over."

"There's also the little fact this is  _Loki_ and predicting his moves is like playing Russian roulette but with worse odds." Clint looks none too happy to even be considering the prospect of trusting the god. Or trusting Tony's judgment. Either way.

"Oh, and your plan is better? Because I'm sure the Black Panther has Doombots stashed away in his crystal," Tony shoots back.

"It sounds more likely than the god of lies deciding now is the time to take the high road," snaps Clint. Natasha, in an uncharacteristic display of warmth and affection, puts her hand on his arm.

The look on Tony's face says trouble. "But of course, our dear Captain will agree with us. It's a reward for  _his_  services, after all," says Tony with a harsh quirk of his lips.

Steve glares at him. The quip stings far more than it should, like Tony is throwing his knowledge right back at him—which, really, is what he's doing. He wants to punch the stupid smirk off of his face, not a new urge, but one he's usually adept at restraining and concealing.

"Too far, Tony," sighs Bruce, who's never been Steve's advocate at the best of times. He rumples his hair with one hand. Bruce looks like a man beaten by the world far, far too many times. "Save it."

Steve tries to relax, to uncoil his clenched muscles through sheer force of will. Thinking about Tony certainly doesn't help. Instead, his mind goes to Loki—goes to numbing pain and near death and things that make the rest of the world irrelevant.

It's downright terrifying to feel how quickly his heart rate goes back to normal. He catches sight of Tony's eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity, and returns his stare evenly.

Single-minded as always with his reliance on Steve to be the peacekeeper, Fury clears his throat. "So, do we trust the bastard?" Fury says, returning to the main topic at hand.

"No," say Natasha and Clint at the exact same time.

Thor gives Natasha and Clint a vaguely doleful look but, finally, nods. "It pains me to say I agree. My brother proved himself unworthy of trust long ago."

"Hill?" says Fury.

"I'm with Stark and Dr. Banner on this one," Hill says with a nod. "I prefer educated guesswork to pure guesswork."

"Captain?" Fury says and Steve can't miss the meaningful look Tony sends his way:  _you trust him, don't you._

"I believe him on this much," Steve concedes without meeting Tony's gaze. "But he's only setting us up for the fall. We shouldn't let him know we need him, if we need him anymore. He'll hopefully be gone soon." Clint nods in agreement at the solution, which luckily seems to also placate Thor.

"I have talked to the Allfather," Thor announces in that self-important way he has. Clint mimes texting behind his back. "We will…collect, I think the word is, him in three Midgardian days. My mother must make the necessary improvements to Loki's shackles."

The grim way Thor says "Loki's shackles" makes Steve think they're more than just ordinary shackles. He shudders to think about how what might be on them—spells, something to hurt Loki and specifically him—maybe to target the ice giant in him.

"Okay," he says, shaking off the flutter in his stomach that is  _not_ concern. "Three days."


	17. Chapter 17

The meeting ends soon after.

Fury fixes Steve with a heavy look that says, very clearly,  _I trust you and I'm only taking Loki's word because I trust you_ , which, from anyone else, might be sort of nice. From Fury, it's a threat.

What does it say when Fury goes against Natasha, Clint, and Thor because of Steve's judgment call? It says Steve's judgment call better damn well be good or else they are all done for.

But can Steve trust himself? Physically, emotionally? He inhales slowly and stays seated as the other Avengers plus Hill file out.

He has to separate this—this thing with Loki, because that's what it is, isn't it—from the Avengers. Steve supposes…well, he doesn't know what to suppose. A thought comes to his mind unbidden.  _Is this a relationship?_

Steve has to hold back a laugh. Oh, Lord, if this is what a relationship is, no wonder Tony makes a habit of avoiding them. No, no way. This little—thing, tryst,  _dalliance,_ the god would probably call it—should be inconsequential when it comes to the Avengers.

And, even if he's not sure about his physical or emotional state, he's sure about his morals. He's not Captain America for nothing. Right and wrong are still there, aren't they—gray areas and all?

Loki will be gone in three days and then there will be no more gray areas, no more fuzzy moments in which he is not the Captain.

Three days.

Mentally, rationally, Steve knows exactly how he feels about that. Relieved. Hopeful that Asgard will keep the god contained. Emotionally, even physically, that's a differ—

"Really, Captain. Most people smile when they think about their lovers. You look so calm you could murder someone."

"What?"

"Ooh, not anymore. Did I disturb you?" says Tony, leaning against the doorway. He trots over and sits on the table, a few feet away from Steve. "I was going to leave, but I figured you could use a heart to heart."

"Not especially," Steve says.

"No, but really. I saw that look on your face, Van Gogh. You were  _so_ going to punch someone, probably me, but technicalities. Then, boom, you think about Loki—don't deny it—and you go serial-killer calm." Tony ticks his points off on his fingers, lingering on the last one accusingly.

Steve shrugs. Truth to be told, Tony is right. Truth to be told, emotionally, Loki slots into a curious hole in his life he never thought he had. It's a scary thought.  _What comes when he's gone? Living in guilt, and morning runs, and destroying bag after bag?_

Great. So Tony just had to blow a hole in his whole mental state separate from Loki thing. Steve really, really does not want to think about this. Steve really, really can't afford to get wrapped up in this.

_Three days._

"So. You and him. Him and you."

Steve realizes, suddenly, what Tony is getting at. "No. No, you know as well as I do that it's not like that."

"I know. But you certainly took a long time getting there." Tony throws him a dubious look and crosses his arms. "For an old geezer, you are naïve as hell. He's using you. You know that."

Steve shuts his eyes for a few moments then opens them again. "Yes. Yes, Tony, I know."

"And yet you're still sitting here, thinking about him like a girl with a crush." Tony stops short at the look on Steve's face. "What? It's true. You care about him. Sex is feelings for you, isn't it? Fuck, the masochism must run deeper than I thought. It's okay." He leans over to pat Steve on the shoulder. "If he wasn't a soulless bastard, I'd say he cared about you too."

"He called me the 'most idiotic Midgardian he's ever had the dubious…', well, you heard," Steve says, incredulous. "That's not caring. From either side. I did what I had to do."

_Oh, now there's a big fat lie._

Tony seems to hear his thoughts. "Oh, please. I'd love to erase the sounds of you ' _doing what you had to do_ ' and then some from my memory, but alas. Can't always get what you want."

"I made a mistake. Quite a few. More than I can think about. Believe me, Tony, I  _know,_ " Steve says wearily. "But there are only three more days. Then, I can figure out what to do. Then, I can feel guilty for every damn thing I've done or thought. Right now, my issues are not the priority."

The look on Tony's face is somewhat pitying. "You think after three days, it'll all end? You can just put off your emotions until the nearest convenient date? God, Natasha must have had a field day with you. Repression up to your fucking eyeballs, I swear."

"There isn't anything to repress," Steve says firmly. Because, really, what's the harm of lying if it makes him feel just a bit more stable?

_Three days. That's it._

"Oh, so the fact you're apparently gay doesn't bother your forties sensibilities. Not to mention you're into some pretty non-vanilla stuff. What would the Howling Commandos have thought of that? Yes, I saw your file." Tony's glinting eyes are narrowed, and he leans forward.

Steve comes very, very close to losing it.

Because why, why does Tony have to be a genius? Why does he have to knock down pieces of Steve's already very fragile mental state—when Steve thought he'd distanced himself from the issue with the comforting thought of  _three days._

"Tony," he grits out, then stops. He digs his teeth into the side of his cheek, to bite back the words, to bite back his anger and guilt and everything—and it calms him. The controlled pain clears his head a little and if he only didn't know why that was, he'd be satisfied.

" _You were thinking too much…and besides, didn't I say no talking?"_

Steve rubs his neck in remembrance, and maybe in gratitude. Because what could have happened otherwise?

Tony is smiling, a devious, half-moon curve of a smile. "I almost had you there, didn't I. Almost pushed you over."

Steve sighs. "This isn't a game. I could seriously hurt you. You  _know_ that, Tony."

"But you won't," Tony says and hops neatly off the table. "Nice talking to ya, Van Gogh."

"How can you be so sure?" says Steve absently, almost as an afterthought. "That I won't hurt you, I mean?"

"If you can care about Loki, I don't think you're going to hurt me."

"I don't 'care' for Loki. Your logic doesn't even make sense."

Tony pauses in the doorway. "And yet  _you_  remember what he said word for word. If you don't care for him, you're certainly obsessed with him. As he is with you."

"Tony—don't—what is your  _point_?" calls Steve after him, thoroughly confused and fed up with the tricks and the sinking feeling he is being toyed with.

At least with Loki he  _knows_ it's going to happen.

Tony exhales heavily. "Well, Cap. I hate to say it, but I'm going to have to diagnose you as psychologically fucked up. First of all, you have some serious repression issues. Like, I think you could be arrested for the amount of manic-repressive shit you have spinning around your head. Come on, you're Captain America. Freedom and all that? Free speech?"

"Then there's the fact you're in a sexual relationship that started from abuse and continues on abuse because you think you deserve it and I could go into how many ways that is messed up but I don't have all day so I won't."

"But I don't think that," Steve says in a small voice and instantly wishes he could take back the words.

"Don't think what?" says Tony with a predatory look. "That you deserve it?"

And it's true. Because he deserves the  _repercussions_ , the times he's caught out. But does he really play along with Loki's twisted games because he thinks he deserves it—the abuse, the hurt, the pain?

Tony is studying him again with that narrow-eyed appraising look and Steve doesn't like it. "Please stop with the psychoanalysis," he groans.

"I'm beginning to see why Red likes it so much," Tony admits mildly. He clears his throat. "Anyway. Good talk. Your mind is a fucking mess."

"Thanks," mutters Steve dryly with both eyebrows raised. He rests his head on his hand as the sound of Tony's footsteps fade away.

 _Three days until things go back to normal._ Normal, a universe in which he is most decidedly not gay, doesn't have to force himself to not think about Loki, and is the clearheaded, focused— _guiltriddenangrytired_ —leader of the Avengers.

_Three. Goddamn. Days._


	18. Chapter 18

That night, Steve can't sleep.

And normally, that wouldn't be a problem. He could go work out or run or draw to get rid of the excess energy. But on the Helicarrier, there's a limited amount of things to do without waking anyone up.

Not to mention that he's tired. It doesn't make sense, that he's too worked up to sleep but also so, so tired. But he is. He's tired of thinking and pacing. He's tired of being unable to do anything but wait (for both Latveria and for three days).

He's tired of everything.

Even too tired for sleep, apparently.

Steve yawns, rolls over, hears the sound of Clint and Tony snoring in tandem from the adjacent rooms—for a super spy, Clint is one noisy sleeper—and sits up.

He pads carefully to the bathroom. Another pro of the super serum: seeing in the dark. Not that he could see well enough to really do anything. Avoiding walking into the walls is about as far as his ability goes.

He flicks the light on in the bathroom, which joins his room and Clint's—Tony's is on the opposite side—and closes the door behind him.

He takes a good, hard look at the man in the mirror. Someone who's not really him. Who hasn't been him since the operation. Because the man in the mirror, he looks strong, he looks capable and warworthy—albeit a little tired at the moment.

But Steve is so very not strong and capable. He is the short, skinny teenager who could be blown over by a gust of wind. He is the little boy who cried himself to sleep before he figured out that sometimes crying just made things worse.

Steve is not the man in the mirror.

The façade of "Captain" melts away under the military white light and leaves…who? Loki's helpless plaything, Loki's little crying pet?

He turns the faucet, lets the cold water trickle onto his hands, and splashes himself in the face. Not an elegant solution. Not a solution at all, really, because when the water drips from his eyes and he can see again, the man in the mirror is still the same and he is still the same and it just doesn't fit.

Captain America is a suit he wears and muscle he doesn't deserve. Steve Rogers is a teenager with a big heart who never could make a difference. Now he's some amalgamation of the two plus a dose of Loki's pet—but that part  _shouldn't_  count because it will be gone in three (probably two, now) days.

He closes his eyes. Two, no, three days. Then the part of him that is Loki's will be gone and he can figure out where his three, no, two remaining pieces fit together.

He breathes out slowly and opens his eyes again.

Steve is wiping his face with a thin towel when he hears footsteps behind him, right behind him,  _in the bathroom with him,_ and he has to stop himself from lashing out because there is only one person—god—that could be.

He lets the towel fall into the sink but keeps his eyes closed for a long moment.

Maybe this will all be a hallucination, a wonderful nightmare he can lose himself in. He's honestly not sure what he'd prefer, now, in the depths of the night—the god behind him or confirmation that he is certifiably insane. It would certainly explain a lot.

The hand that settles, feather-soft, around his neck could still be a dream. The two fingers that press, just a shade beyond gentle, on his Adam's apple are painfully real.

"Loki," Steve gasps.

"Oh, I love it when you say my name like that," says Loki, half snide amusement and half something else, something sharper.

Steve catches sight of them both in the mirror—him with his face flushed, clearly out of his depth, Loki a little taller and with a crooked little smile playing over his—

Loki presses harder, tipping his chin upwards forcefully. "See something interesting, Captain?"

"For a diva, you—"

Loki gives a little sigh that does absolutely nothing to repudiate Steve's point and spins Steve around, using the not even nearly faded bruises on his neck to turn him.

"When did you learn to talk back? Naughty, naughty." Loki's eyes are devious, dangerously so. "A pet like you needs to learn his place."

Steve feels as if he's watching his own life on a time delay, like he knows what's going to happen a second before it does and can't—or won't—stop it.

"On your knees." Eyes hard, voice sharp as ice, this is Loki to the core and something about it makes Steve feel like sparks are igniting under his skin.

It says something that Steve doesn't even think of resisting. Instead, he gets to his knees slowly, carefully. He does not want to look in the mirror now.

Unfortunately, Loki notices. "Well?" says Loki, voice rich and soft and smug. "You were so  _eager_  to see before. Have you had a change of heart?"

Going against everything in his nature, Steve shakes his head.

"Look at me."

Steve obeys.

"Now, pet." Loki's voice is very soft now. "I want you to suck me off."

Steve tries not to meet Loki's eyes. "What if I say no?"

"Well, then I will take you." Loki tips his chin, gently this time, upwards to meet his gaze. "You will be screaming my name and I will just…forget…to shield your lovely teammates' ears."  
There is nothing uncertain in those green eyes.

Steve takes a breath, heart beating faster than it should be, and with a terribly hot feeling near the bottom of his stomach. He curls bare toes against the cold tile. He can feel his face heating up—how his body reacts when he realizes that some part of him wants Loki to take him, teammates be damned.

"Is that what you want, bikkja?"

"No," Steve somehow manages to choke out between the haze of desire and shame.

"Then…I don't have all night." Loki makes a vague gesture at him, as if he  _could_ be patient but just chooses not to. Steve lets himself slip away, lets Captain America slip away, lets himself slip into the desire pooled inside him.

He has the sinking feeling he needs this more than Loki does.

* * *

Apart from the rope around Steve's wrists, the whole thing feels strangely gentle, strangely soft. Even the rope is loose, not loose enough to pull out of, but enough that it doesn't chafe. Something in him is relieved. Something in him is disappointed.

Loki is enjoying this far too much as is, Steve suspects. Captain America, stripped to the waist. On his knees, following the intermittent pressure of Loki's hand on his head, up and down, up and down. He's not complaining, exactly, but the part of him that is relieved by this lenient treatment is getting quieter and quieter by the second.

Steve is almost  _too_ relaxed, to the point where he's itching for something harder, rougher, when Loki's fingers lace through his hair and stay there.

Loki is petting him. Not exactly petting, but close enough. He runs his fingers through Steve's short hair, fingertips over his scalp, making him forget about the slight discomfort in his knees and increasing the speed without it really registering in Steve's head.

It feels good, good in a very  _wrong_  way—and he's not really sure why.

But he knows one thing. Only Loki could make him like this. This— _petting._ Even the word sounds demeaning, but there's no other way he can think of putting it.

Petting. He knows himself too well to deny there's some amount of appeal in the word. Petting.

Maybe the demeaning is what makes it so good. He swallows without quite meaning to.

Loki's reaction is immediate, a minute tremor through his body, and Steve flicks his eyes up to watch. Loki's pupils are blown wide. Steve can see his own Adam's apple throb as he swallows, obviously taking a great deal of control to maintain his carefully light touch on Steve's head.

This time, it's entirely deliberate. Steve takes Loki's cock down until it hits the back of his throat. The shudder that runs through the god's body is gratifying and Steve swallows around it, hard.

Things turn even more dirty, even more wrong, very fast and Steve should definitely  _not_ be enjoying this.

Loki swears under his breath, a brief burst of Asgardian invective in a tone that sounds distinctly like how Tony would say "Oh, fuck it", and clamps one hand around Steve's head.

Steve has to try very hard not to choke, the borderline pain somehow going straight to his own cock, which is embarrassing but also incredibly arousing.

Then Loki starts moving.

Something about Loki, the inveterate trickster—typically self-possessed past the point of utter indifference—and this newfound lack of control makes Steve _burn_.

If someone had asked Steve before—well, ever—if he liked having his mouth fucked (for the lack of a better term), he'd probably have…

What? Screamed no and run away? He certainly wouldn't have even considered enjoying it.

Loki is talking again, murmuring, really, a steady stream of mixed English and Asgardian and probably a dozen different tongues Steve doesn't know. He catches "gorgeous" at least once, "pet" more times than he wants to count, "bikkja" once or twice, buried deep in lines of Asgardian that are really quite beautiful, not that Steve is putting much thought into it.

Steve hums around him and Loki lets a low moan slip out, eyelids sliding closed. "Oh…"

Without thinking about it, Steve pulls his wrists free of the rope—Loki must have other things on this mind than magical rope, he thinks dryly—and brings one around to touch himself. He's hard, pre-cum staining the inside of his pants, and when Loki moans again he nearly loses it.

When he rubs the underside of Loki's shaft with his other hand, the same rhythm he's using to jerk himself off, the god's hand loosens on his head, moving through his hair and curling around his cheekbone.

Steve comes just as Loki's fingers stroke the bruises on his neck, maybe by accident, maybe not. He groans audibly, even around Loki's cock, before realizing he should stay quiet and Loki doesn't help by repeating the movement of fingers over skin, again and again, until the pain clears his head.

Loki is speaking in a steady stream of words, English this time. "I'm not going to take you tonight, my beautiful pet. I want to see you like this, filthy, cheeks flushed, trying not to make a sound. But you want to, don't you?"

Steve feels Loki hit the back of his throat again and moans by way of response.

"Do you want me to come in your mouth?" Loki's voice is huskier than Steve has ever heard it and that sound is enough to make him hard again. With difficulty, he nods.

"Touch yourself." And just as Steve does Loki comes, making a sound low and helpless and needy. He pulls out and Steve can feel some of the liquid trickling down his cheek.

Loki stoops, nearly falls, down to his own knees so he can take Steve in his hand. He's only a little taller than Steve now and Steve can't help but moan at the sight of Loki's eyes, dark and green and drinking him in.

"Come again for me, gorgeous," Loki murmurs right into his ear and Steve does.

 


	19. Chapter 19

What a pretty sight," Loki says, voice painfully rough. He jerks Steve's head to the side. "Do you want to see what a mess I've made of you?"  
Steve reacts too slowly to close his eyes. Honestly, he isn't sure he would if he could.

The mirror flashes bright for a second as Steve's eyes adjust to the light. He's grateful for the extra moment to prepare himself. To soon, there is nothing else to put between him and the man in the mirror.

A mess is, well…one word to describe it.

He's never seen himself like this. And seeing as the Avengers have been primes media fodder for quite a while now, that's saying something. He's never looked so so drained. Even after a battle, the pictures that make the papers are him looking filthy but defiant, a set to his jaw that, to him looks strained but to the rest of the world looks  _brave._

But it's not only that. The ropes around his wrists are tight again, and the way his back arches with his wrists pulled back is nothing if not submissive.

Steve's face is flushed, his pupils are blown, there is a trace of viscid come—more than a trace—on his lips and, when he moves to wipe it off, his shoulders flex but move nowhere.

He is not Captain America. Not right now.

Steve licks his lips, tasting salt and bitterness and enjoying it.

A startled huff of breath against his neck. Steve can see Loki's half smile from behind him. He feels a soft pressure against his wrists, a momentary one before the rope falls away. "You've done well,  _bikkja_."

Wincing slightly, Steve rubs his wrists to get the blood back into them. He starts to get up and Loki stops him with two hands on his shoulders.

Steve gives him a look that he hopes conveys an irritated " _what now_ ".

Loki smiles indulgently. "Did you ask to stand up?"

Steve opens his mouth to say no. What comes out is: "May I?"

"Of course," Loki says, as if Steve doesn't need to ask.

Steve stands up shakily, dizzily. He's grateful, for once, for Loki's hands on his shoulders, the presence of the god beside him. But even on his feet, he feels no more powerful—Loki's hand resting on the juncture of his neck and shoulder could push him down just as easily as it supports him.

Steve's neck feels very warm all of a sudden and in the same instant Loki pulls away.

Well, it's not like Steve would have pegged Loki for a cuddler, but still.

Steve tries to meet his eyes in the mirror, curious, but Loki stubbornly keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, on the few green sparks that weave around his fingers. Steve sucks in a surprised breath. His neck tingles. Magic.

Loki clenches his fists on the edge of the countertop as if he's forgotten Steve entirely. "It's no use."

Steve tries to raise his eyebrows nonchalantly, as if that had been addressed to him instead of at him. "What isn't?"

Pursing his lips, Loki dispels the sparks with a flick of his fingers. The god meets his eyes in the mirror in a way that is  _too_ bold,  _too_ confident. "Nothing that concerns you."

There is an infinite amount of things Steve could say here, most of them along the lines "the hell it doesn't" but Steve holds his tongue. "Whenever you want to tell me."

It should not be possible to look simultaneously tired and powerful, but Loki manages. "Perhaps one day, my dear Captain," says Loki, sounding resigned rather than doubtful, which Steve finds encouraging.

One day. The words stick in Steve's head; a promise that can't be kept. Do they even have 'one day's? Loki will be gone in two, three days. And who knows when, or if, he will ever come back?

"Do you like it here?"

Loki's brows furrow. "Here, Midgard, or here, with you?"  
"Midgard." Steve watches as Loki makes sparks dance around his fingers, thinking.

"Sometimes," the god says quietly, cautiously. The sparks float over his hand, arranging into patterns and re-arranging so quickly Steve only catches impressions—city skylines, mountains, waterfalls and rivers—and people. Everywhere, people drawn in flecks of color.

It's sort of amazing, the way Steve can tell they're men, or women, or children just from the movement of the sparks. The artistic part of Steve wants to draw Loki, distrait with his memories laid out in green. But he knows the beauty of it lies in the movement, the constantly shifting vistas and people, and that to draw it would render it lifeless.

Realizing he's staring, Loki closes his fist and the sparks dissipate. He looks oddly embarrassed. "When I came here, I spent a day or two moving from place to place. Finding an ally. Finding Doom."

"What did you think?" Steve can't deny that there is raw hope in his voice.

Loki considers that for a second. "It is not the most inferior of the Nine Realms," he admits.

Steve supposes that will have to do. "I've always wanted to see more of the world," he says wistfully, leaning against the counter. "I've barely been outside the country. America, I mean."

Loki glances at him. "A worthy aspiration. It is…unfortunate, perhaps, to be forced to fight for a world you do not even know. To have it expected of you." His voice is quiet.

Steve shrugs. "Maybe. But it's the only home I have." He taps his fingers against the sink. "It's the only one left."

This conversation is cutting a little too deeply for Steve's liking. He does not want to think about what he can't stop thinking of as his  _real_ home.

Perhaps he's just trying to change the subject. Perhaps he's been meaning to askt his all along. No matter what the reason, part of Steve will never, ever forgive himself for what happens next.

"Does it scare you?" Steve asks. "Going back?"

"No," Loki draws out the word thoughtfully. "What, now, does it scare  _you_? Does it really seem so unavoidable?"

Steve thinks of the phrase  _Loki's shackles_ and winces. "Unavoidable, yes. It's three days, Loki." He sighs, considers the information he's revealed, then realizes it doesn't especially matter.

Perhaps that realization is what makes him careless. "But then again, the fact that you aren't scared scares me. For someone who has their own  _shackles,_ you're being awfully…nonchalant."

Loki pounces on that piece of information, eyes flashing with sudden guile. "So they're putting me back into those old things, are they?" Loki makes a contented noise, like a purr, that makes Steve's stomach flip before he realizes what he's just done.

 _Dammit, dammit, dammit_ —"I'm not sure."

"Lying is an art form, and you are absolutely hopeless at it," says Loki with a vulpine smile.

Steve feels like something has dropped out of him, something vital like maybe his lungs, because he's finding it very hard to breathe right now. Does he never learn? Is everything Loki says just geared towards his weaknesses—every word striking a nerve, opening his mouth and spilling words, secrets, out.

He is, like the rest of the world, Loki's fantoccini, his pretty marionette, and somehow he can't stop to cut the strings.

(And, somehow, he doesn't want to.)

Steve leans back, away from Loki, and aligns his shoulders with the wall. He closes his eyes.

Loki traces his fingers around Steve's neck, the same deadly motion from earlier, but slower, more affectionate than anything. "Do not worry. It is a trifling matter what means they use to restrain me. Thor's father is too stubborn, too proud to call in other sorcerers to keep  _me_  imprisoned, and that will be his undoing."

Steve opens his eyes again, unsure whether to be terrified or pleased that Loki is trying to reassure him. He opens his mouth to say something, he's not exactly sure what—

Loki cuts him off. "Thank you, bikkja. Perhaps you  _do_ deserve a gift."

Steve blinks. He wants to respond, he really does, but something feels different. He feels—warmer, suddenly. "What did you do?"

"Nothing malevolent, my pet," murmurs Loki. His fingertips against Steve's neck are hot. When Steve looks in the mirror, there are sparks. Sparks sinking into his skin and disappearing. It's a strange sensation to see your own skin lit up from the inside, and Steve can't honestly say he ever wants to see it again.

"What is that?"

Loki tugs him gently, so he's leaning against the god and not the wall. "Just something to help you sleep. Think of it as a preliminary 'thank you.'"

"Preliminary…?" Steve's head feels pleasantly fuzzy. He'd imagine being drunk as being like this. Not that he'd know.

"You've helped me more than you know," says Loki. He walks Steve to the door, supporting almost all of his weight and not seeming to even feel it.

"What are you…"

"Just sleep, Captain. You've been a good pet today."

In a few short steps, Steve collapses, boneless, onto the bed. Loki waves his hand and the blanket wraps around him like that shawarma thing Tony once made them all try.

He smiles to himself and makes a sound that is most  _definitely_ not a giggle.

Loki pats him on the head. "They're always a little hare-brained after  _søvn fortryllet."_  For the first time, Steve actually feels like he's being talked to like a pet. Hare-brained, huh. He's not sure how to feel about that.

Actually, if Steve really thinks about it, he knows how he feels. He feels…warm. Kind of soft and fluffy and if this is what being drunk feels like, Steve owes Tony a serious apology.

He smiles into his pillow. No  _wonder_ Tony's drunk so much.

Loki runs his fingers, cool and gentle, through Steve's hair, against his scalp, and Steve makes an involuntary noise in his throat. He chokes out a few words between moans:

"Why are you…doing this?"

Loki stands over him, eyes distant, dull, faraway. Steve's about to give up on an answer, about to give in to the drowsiness threatening to envelop him like a wave when Loki answers. "Why? Oh, you don't know it." He makes a sound that Steve dimly recognizes as a laugh, but with no humor behind it. "If you did, you would run and never come back."

Mumbling, vision blurring, Steve says something embarrassing along the lines of "I would never."

Loki huffs out a surprised laugh. "You would. You will if you remember this tomorrow. Oh, Captain, if only you knew, hmm? I need you. I need in more ways than one, my precious pet." He touches the side of Steve's face, but he doesn't feel really  _there_.

"I don't know why, but my magic positively  _thrives_ around you," he says, words that should be sarcastic but delivered with slumped shoulders and eyes that look lusterless. "Ironic, no? You, my enemy. You, my captor." With every word, he traces lines across Steve's cheekbone, around the curve of his ear, as if Steve is a cat lying in his lap.

"You make me strong and weak at the same time."

The presence of Loki's fingers disappears. Steve sees through blurry eyes as the god bows his head. The arch of his back, a curve extending from the ilium up his spine, is defeated.

A dozen things bounce around in Steve's head, a dozen answers, from sharp to confused to comforting. He tries to grasp one, any one, something to say, anything—

His eyes slide shut before a word makes it past his lips.

* * *

In his dreams, Steve sees green.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Steve wakes slowly, luxuriously, but with the vague feeling that he is forgetting something. Something important, too.

Loki…

For a second, Steve can't remember if Loki was actually there or if it was just a dream. Then slowly the foggy dream solidifies into memory—hard lines pressed up against him, warm body, cold tile—and he rolls over and buries his face into his pillow.

He's still forgetting something. He knows he is, and he can't quite figure out what it is. He's slipping back into a somnolent stupor when it hits him.

He hasn't slept this easily since…since. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how long it's been since he's been able to sleep this easily, to slide in and out of sleep like a warm bath.

Usually, he grabs his sleep where he can get it, in ten-minute catnaps, a couple hours a night. Usually, it's as if he's losing time—he blinks and a few hours have gone by. It's as if he doesn't sleep at all.

This is something different. Something magic—

A sharp rapping on his door galvanizes him into action, shattering the comfortable haze of sleep. Steve is out of the bed before he knows what he's doing.

"Who is it?" he calls, heart going a mile a minute. It feels like he's been caught doing something bad when he really hasn't been doing anything but sleeping.

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist recently turned Avenger."

"Coulson?"

"What—" Steve can hear Tony sputtering in indignation. "Coulson? Really? Is he even an Avenger? Why is he the first one to come to your mind?"

Steve opens the door, heartrate returning to a manageable level. "Don't say that around him. I don't think he'd appreciate it."

Tony narrows his eyes at him. "Cut the sarcasm. You're really full of it, you know? You've got us all convinced you're perfect but you're secretly laughing at us behind our backs."

That hits a little too close to home.

(Is he imagining it, or is the glint in Tony's eyes not completely friendly?)

"Why are you here?" Steve says tensely.

Instead of making a joke, Tony glances away uncomfortably. "Ah, right." He looks a little guilty, or maybe he's just feeling out of his depth. "Bruce needs to do a final checkup. He says it's just to make sure you're healing up properly. Normally, they do it a week or so after…the first checkup, that is, but you heal fast, so. Lucky you."

"Lucky me," echoes Steve.

Tony's lips twitch into a half-smile, appreciating the irony. "Yep. And after that you should probably meet up with Nat and Clint at the bridge. They're going to try and establish contact with the Black Panther. Let him know we know what he does in his free time."

"But we know he's not involved," says Steve. "Latveria is the goal, isn't it?"

"We think the Black Panther's not involved," Tony corrects. "But yeah. I don't think they're going to spend much time on it." He pauses, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. The tap-tap-tap is erratic, a little frantic, and strangely irritating.

"Look." Tony looks like he's tasted something bad, like what he thought was wine was actually just expired grape juice. "I'm—"

Steve does not want to hear a false apology. Not from Tony, who has always been honest to (and beyond) a fault. "I'm going to go get ready," he interrupts and closes the door, hesitating only the barest millisecond to prevent Tony from losing a finger.

Maybe there is a better way to handle this situation, but Steve does not want to hear Tony try to choke out an apology.

Not Tony.

First of all, from him, an apology would most definitely be a lie—after all, Steve's various assignations with Loki are what gave Tony a little information, a little hope regarding Pepper.

But it's a little more complicated than that.

Tony is the one who knows what's really happening—has actually heard it in lurid detail, which makes Steve cringe to even think about. And Steve certainly does not want to hear "sorry" from someone who knows that much about he and Loki's…thing.

And why is that? Steve asks himself silently.

He thinks, but even as he hears Tony's footsteps fading softly down the hall, he can't find an answer.

As soon as Steve walks into Room 5M, he knows coming was a mistake. Bruce's eyes take in every part of him, narrow for a second, then meet his own eyes squarely.

Bruce's lips curl up into a dry smile. "I don't think this will take long at all."

Steve opens his mouth but has no justification or excuse. He's felt better since he woke up, much better—it's no surprise than someone as aware as Bruce could see it, too. Even so, it feels like some sort of invasion of privacy to have that knowledge stripped away from him.

Steve sits down on the operating table, feeling a little helpless.

"Loki healed you. But you knew that already, didn't you, Captain?" Bruce's voice is soft, knowing, but not quite warm.

Steve swallows past the sudden dryness in his mouth. "I guessed."

"You guessed."

Steve pauses. "I don't remember exactly," he says, hesitating even though it's true.

"Has he used some sort of memory spell on you?"

Steve gives Bruce a look. "How would I know if he had?"

Bruce smiles, amused. "Good point. Do you think he would do that to you?"

Steve wants to say no. But he's not sure how he'd explain that feeling, not in Bruce's direct and almost didactic gaze. He feels, bizarrely, as if Bruce would—well, scold him for his thoughts if he didn't have a way to back them up.

"No," he says finally. "I think he likes knowing I remember."

"And what do you remember?" Bruce says quietly, kicking his chair around to face Steve.

Steve hesitates. Should he tell Bruce the truth? What is the truth?

"I remember giving in. I remember thinking he…didn't hate us as much as I thought. Not our planet, at least. I remember…" Oh no… "I remember telling him something I shouldn't have. Then I remember green, and sleeping the best I have in ages."

Bruce taps his fingers against the table, slowly and steadily thinking his way through what Steve has just told him. "What did you tell him?"

Steve stares at the sterile white tiles of the floor. He doesn't know what's worse—that Loki didn't have to inveigle him into spilling secrets, or that, well, some part of him is glad Loki rewarded him for it. "I let it slip that the Allfather was going to put him back in his shackles."

Bruce sucks in a breath. "Nothing you can do about it now. Is that all?"

Steve blinks. "Uh…I don't think so. I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I doubt it was anything important."

"Don't assume that," Bruce says quietly. "Keep trying to remember. Maybe he let something of his own slip when he put the healing spell on you." He stops, looking deep in thought. "Captain, I don't want to put it like this…but do you think you're…compromised when it comes to Loki? Can we—I—trust you to put the Avengers first?"

And there it is—the question Steve's been trying to answer from the beginning of this mess, from the first day in his apartment with Loki. He takes a long, deep breath, then another.

"I don't know."

Bruce fills out the remainder of the form in relative silence except for the most perfunctory of questions—"do you feel any pain here? There? Anywhere?"—and Steve mulls over the phrase 'two days'. If he's as attached to Loki as Bruce seems to be implying, whether that attachment be physical or psychological, what will Loki leaving do?

He can trust himself to be Captain America first and bikkja second. So he hopes.

Bruce dismisses him and he can't help feeling relieved to—

"Wait, Captain." Bruce pauses expectantly, though Steve can hear his hands still busy on the keyboard. Steve turns around with something like dread curling around his stomach.

"Yes?"

"Can you do me a…favor?" The word sounds uncomfortable, as if it doesn't sit well in Bruce's mouth, and Steve can understand why. Favors imply trust and trust does not come easily to Bruce Banner.

At least, Steve doesn't think so.

"Depends what it is."

"Do you remember when Tony and I were talking about the experiments?" The keys stop clicking.

Experiments. It sounds vaguely familiar. Steve tries to think back to the last time he heard that term.

"Physical research might have been Fury's term for it." Bruce is watching him with a carefully blank gaze.

Wait, physical res—yes. He does remember it. It feels ages ago—Tony and Bruce standing among the debris of the New York headquarters, talking in low voices. Tony uncharacteristically serious, Bruce with fists clenched just a little too tightly. Talking about proof. Experiments.

Physical research.

Steve feels a little sick. Everything's happening at once, and yet he can't believe he let something like that slip his mind.

"Well," Bruce says, apparently finding his answer in Steve's expression. "Tony found it. Them. He confronted Fury about them, actually—about as helpful as you'd expect, given that it's Tony."

"And you think I could find out more?" Steve says.

"More or less. They're not web-based, not even remotely. Tony's got the whole Helicarrier bugged, but even he still can't figure out where Fury's keeping the data. And he basically designed this place."

"Okay," agrees Steve. "I'll try." The clicking resumes. He puts his hand on the doorknob, cold metal, warm hand, and stops. "Bruce."

"Yes, Captain?" Bruce's voice has returned to its familiar cadence, rough and always with that little hint of bitter irony.

"Why are you doing this? Why do you care what Fury does with his experiments?"

The clicking stops, then starts again at a slower pace. "Call it empathy, maybe. If I weren't so easily annoyed"—Bruce, as always, has a dark sense of humor—"he'd try and keep me around to poke at, too."

Steve nods but doesn't turn the knob. "And what about Tony?"

"The experiments that Fury's keeping under wraps are dangerous, Steve." Steve notes that this is one of the first times Bruce has called him by his first name. "There's a reason Doom is coming after us. And Tony's convinced that's it."

"You're not?"

"Maybe." The word is final. "We'll see."

"Yeah," says Steve quietly. The door opens with a smooth click. "We will."

**Author's Note:**

> Just btw, this story is on fanfiction.net as well under a different name, but they should both be at the same length now. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated :) Promise I'm not going to give this story up, even if it takes a while to update!


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